Rose of the World
by Wayward Owl
Summary: Rosamund is an British spy, sent on a mission undercover. Escaping in French controlled territory with valuable information, she must make it to Fort William Henry before it's too late. Yet a certain Huron chief is sent to hunt her down. Magua/OC.
1. Chapter 1

A/N – Joker's Lover inspired me to write another story. The Fox and the Robin is still ongoing, have just been busy with life. I have chapters ready, just fixing grammar and plot ideas.

Rosamund is an English spy. Escaping in French controlled territory with valuable information, she must make it to Fort William Henry before it's too late. Yet a certain Huron chief is determined to stop her.

* * *

6 months…

6 long, dreary months Rosamund had spent embedded in the heart of French territory. Uncover the guise of a French allied nurse, she had been following their militia movements, meticulously documenting their activity and riffling through any unguarded documents she could find. Her mission was of the upmost importance, from King George II himself. She was gain vital intelligence on the French forts and military mobilisation but most importantly, find their covert trade routes; the key to choking their major source of support. She was to return to Britain before the beginning of winter and report back her findings to the king in person. But she had been discovered. An important general, Marquis de Montcalm, was stopping at the fort to replenish supplies and brief his subordinates as to recent develops and new commands. The temptation was too great.

Under the cover of darkness with only a slither of light from her lantern, Rosamund crept through the fort's inner hallways. Quietly, she entered the Marquis's temporary office and began rifling through documents and maps still lingering on the table. It was exactly the kind of information she had been waiting for. The French were changing their covert routes in accordance with the changing seasons. They were going to utilize a mountain path near Lake George, close to Fort William Henry. If the British generals knew how close and vulnerable the supply route would be, they could prepare and send reinforcements before the start of winter. The French would be strong armed into submission and the war could finally be brought to an end.

In her musings, Rosamund had become careless. Adjusting the allowance on her lantern for better light, her presence had been discovered. A guardsman burst in and challenged her. She could have lied, but with sensitive material in her hands and her personal journal filled with notes and map drawings, she looked as guilty as sin. She had only one choice. Run.

Grasping a discarded half full bottle of cognac brandy and dashing it across the floor, Rosamund flung her lantern down and ran as the flames ignited. But the alarm was already raised, guards began to stir and arm themselves. She had limited time to escape before the fort's gates were sealed shut. She had to create a distraction and flee amongst the ensuing chaos. She freed horses from their stables, set random fires and released livestock to stampede. Many began to think they were under attack, and over the roar of the fire and growing shouting no one could hear the Marquis's rousing orders. The British spy stole away on horseback, still clasping scraps of maps and letters she had managed to hold onto. But it wasn't long before she was being pursued.

Days of hard riding had left her exhausted and weary. She was still a week's travel from Fort William Henry up in the East. Pausing amongst the cover of the woodlands, Rosamund tried to gather her bearings. Despite her exhausted state, she had to think logically. She now had to tread carefully, as she entered native territories. The Cherokee were to the far South. She was welcomed among them as Tako'skówa; the mountain lion. But she also risked running alongside Shawnee and Delaware territory, who were allied with the French. No doubt word had now spread to every French allied tribe and militia that there was a wanted spy amongst their territory. White men she could evade with ease, but natives were a different matter. The Algonquins and Ojibwe of the Eastern territories were also allied with the French. But they also shared their territories with the Seneca and Cayuga, allies of the British. But again her mind drifted back to the Cherokees. They were one of the most dominate tribes in the region, with territories cutting straight through the others. Their lands were thick woodlands, and she would have to sacrifice speed and abandon her horse. Yet it was the only choice which offered her a degree of security. Her decision was made.

Before setting out on foot, Rosamund flung a sack of stones onto the horse's saddle and let it wander off aimlessly, hoping it would confuse any French pursuers. However, she soon found out it was not the French who hunted her. Whilst staying close to the river, she was ambushed. She realised to her dismay it was Hurons pursuing her. She had hoped her tracks and movements would be covered the steady flow of water, but the river only now hindered her escape. With an inhuman shrieking following its flight, an arrow flew past her and struck the river bed, spurning her to bolt into the cover of the forests. Rosamund dashed amongst the trees and tumbled down slopes trying to regain her footing. All she saw were shadows in the tree lines, blurred movements and shapeless figures. Their whooping and hollering echoed amongst the forests. They were quickly gaining. This was but a leisurely chase to these trained hunters. They toyed with her, shooting arrows, sending her scurrying for cover.

Yet she was not so easily fooled. She could see their plan. Had their intentions been to kill her, the arrow would have struck true and she would already be dead. They were purposefully leading her in a particular direction. Every so often an arrow who strike a near tree or skim past her head, changing her direction of travel until the trees began to thin out, and there was less and less cover. Despite her feverish flight, Rosamund desperately recalled her knowledge of the area. If she continued her current path and broke the tree line she would come to a cliff face, with no escape. Below was a thundering waterfall, crashing onto a pool of jagged rocks. Odds of surviving were slim. If the pressure of the waterfall didn't batter you into the submission, then the hazardous rocks would simply break you instead. Her pursuers must have known this, hoping it would spurn her into surrender once she had been cornered. It was a common hunting tactic, cornering one's prey without any possible escape.

Disliking the odds, Rosamund clasped the flintlock pistol nestled in the hem of her skirt. She could return fire, but with no powder or spare ammunition, she only had one or two shots, at best. Amongst the uneven terrain and given the nature of her situation, it would be a wasted and futile effort. Instead, she made a precarious decision.

Abruptly, she changed direction, turning deeper into the forest, despite the sudden increase of arrows flying overhead to redirect her. One albeit grazed her thigh, but she kept running, cursing the long flowing calico skirt which was now ripped and torn, slowing her down as she kept running. Once she hit cover from sight in dead ground, she flung herself to the ground and crawled into hiding, nestled in and amongst brushes and logs. She froze, waiting as the Hurons dashed passed her in excitement and heated pursuit. There were more of them than she thought. She dare not move as a second and third party passed her not long after. She stayed there only for a moment, before breaking cover and moving off. She knew when they had discovered she had slipped away, they would back track and pick up her trail. She had to move fast and pray she reached Cherokee country before it was too late.

The game of cat and mouse continued for another day and a half. Every time the Hurons closed in, Rosamund narrowly managed to slip away. Yet once she crossed into Cherokee territory, they simply stopped, much to her relief. She had crossed the great river, nearly drowning in the process, her clothes soaking wet and heavy with water. Daringly, she looked back to the other side, but found many of the Hurons had already returned back to the forests. Only one remained in view, staring back at her. Rosamund knew this Huron, and inwardly shuddered with dread.

Magua…

She turned quickly and fled into the cover the trees, deeper into Cherokee territory. Once she found the main village, she could hopefully get a warm meal and much needed assistance. She needed to dress her feet, which were bloody and torn, having discarded her boots to prevent leaving obvious tracks. She also needed to get out of her soaking wet clothes before she developed a serious chill. She only hoped she would still be welcome amongst the Cherokee people. Her father had taken a Cherokee woman as a country wife, though Rosamund's mother was his first and legal wife. When she died during Rosamund's childhood, her father's Cherokee wife raised her into adolescence. Though she visited the tribe as often as she could in later adulthood, bringing food and supplies, she couldn't help but wonder if they would recognise her. It had been so long since her last visit. It was the previous winter, when her adoptive Cherokee mother had succumbed to the cold. Since then Rosamund had kept her distance, unsure of her standing amongst them. She could only hope they would honour her plea for help. It had been days since she had eaten a proper meal. She'd managed to forage on nuts and berries, fearing an open flame have drawn too much attention. She had barely slept, for fear the Hurons would be upon her like rabid wolves in the night.

When she arrived in the early hours of the morning, she could have wept in relief. As she approached, she began to stagger, her exhaustion becoming more evident. An older Cherokee man was on sentry and challenged her. She spoke the Cherokee word for friend, and asked to have council with their chief. The elderly brave took one look at her dishevelled appearance and refused. Rosamund took it humorously and followed him as his hobbled into the village. She recognised some of the faces, and they seemed to recognise her. She spoke to one of the women, and traded her colourful calico skirt for a pair of unadorned buckskin leggings and a hot meal. She would have to keep her dirty blouse for now. She had fled the fort in such a rush, she carried little to nothing to trade with her. She would have to make do and depend on the good will of others. She wolfed down the thick meaty broth brought to her, and cheekily asked for more. The tribeswoman was kind, and perhaps took pity on her as she offered a second healthy serving. With her hunger satisfied, Rosamund limped down to the river. The gentle waters eased her battered body as she rinsed the mud and leaves from her golden curls. She let out a contented sigh as she left the river, feeling refreshed and clean. She stepped into the shade and gathered her clothes from the rocks.

Yet as she changed, a chill ran down her spine, as if she was being watched. It was the hunter's instinct her father had instilled in her. To know how to hunt something, but also to know when you are hunted. Ever so slightly, she gazed around, drying herself as if all was normal. All the while, her hand edge closer to the pistol hidden in garment. Just as she was ready to draw the weapon, two children burst out from the bushes in a game of tag, running round and giggling, much to Rosamund's embarrassment. She quickly dressed, and herded the children back to their mother. There, in the heart of the village, the Great Chief of the Cherokee was waiting to receive her.

"Tako'skówa" He greeted, his old beady eyes narrowing, as if focus his fading vision. He smiled, though he seemed to struggle, "I am both happy and saddened with your visit"

"oh, and why is that great Cherokee chief? Am I not welcome? When I return to the British I will be sure to have them send you more supplies for the winter." She hoped her offer would make up for her lack of offerings. All she had of value now was her pistol, and she was almost tempted to give it over to him as tribute. However, an old warrior such as him would probably have no need for it anymore, but it was the thought that counts.

Villagers had begun to gather, watching quietly from a respectful distance. Rosamund couldn't help but notice some thin and weathered faces among them. Some of them looked hungry, though she had heard the summer harvests had been bountiful. Were the mighty Cherokee struggling more than she thought? Suddenly she felt uneasy.

The Chief's words confirmed her worst fears, "the Cherokee and British are no longer brothers. British brothers have failed to keep their promise. British brothers take food and give nothing in return. My people starve. We have no powder for our muskets, and no furs to trade for the winter seasons. Cherokee must seek out new allies, if we are to survive"

Rosamund couldn't believe what she had heard.

With practiced skill, Rosamund kept her composure and carefully considered the situation. Losing the Cherokee Nation was a grave loss. Their territories acted as a gateway through other hostile lands. Why would the British act so foolishly? Perhaps the war was reaching its climax. Winter was coming and funds were dwindling, on both fronts. Maybe they got desperate? Rosamund wasn't convinced. The British were fighting on two fronts. Whilst combating the French, they also had to keep dissatisfied American colonists in line. They couldn't afford a war with natives either. It wasn't logical. Perhaps there was more to this story. Perhaps there was another culprit…

"The French?" she mumbled absently.

The Cherokee Chief studied her closely, watching her green eyes flash with wily cunning. Those all-knowing eyes once more focused on him as he began to speak. "You are not a common white woman, Tako'skówa. You see and know many things".

Rosamund smiled, as if complimented, but her smile was tight. She was growing uneasy. The wind was changing. Something was coming.

Yet the old man continued, deliberately, "You see more than others intend for you to see. Most men simply hear what is said aloud and observe what is done in the light, and think nothing more of it. But not you…you also hear what is left unsaid and discern many things that are hidden in the dark. Such as the mighty mountain lion, fore which you are named. You understand the will of men and can see what is truly written on their hearts. That makes you dangerous"

He sighed, as if heavy with burden. "The French have already offered a high price for your capture"

"I see" Rosamund did not falter, "that is most unfortunate…"

Her expression was calm and stoic. If she was frightened by the news, and the possible aspect of her capture, then she did not show it. "Take pity on me, Great Chief. Have I not always carried the plight of your people in my heart, as if it was my own?"

The Chief gave the briefest nod, acknowledging "Indeed, you have done my people a great service. You hold much influence over the great chiefs of the British"

Rosamund felt a glimmer of hope, and dared to push it to her advantage. "Then honour my efforts, and let me leave in peace. I will return to my land across the great water and right this wrong. I speak to the Great British Chief myself and hear what he has to say"

For a moment, the old Cherokee looked tempted, and took time to consider her words. But slowly, he shook his head, "If you had arrived a few days before, I would have let you and bid you luck"

Rosamund chuckled, trying to lighten the situation. "And what difference would a few days have made?"

The Cherokee Chief was not smiling. Instead he stepped aside to gaze behind her, "You would have arrived before the Hurons"

Rosamund froze. Her worst fears had been confirmed; she had been betrayed. Coming to the Cherokee proved to be a fateful mistake. There was no escape. She had been baited into a false sense of security, and was no trapped. She dare not turn round, fearing what she would face… That's when the devil spoke,

"Magua has found you, Tako'skówa."

* * *

A/N -

Well ? What do you think ?


	2. Chapter 2

A/N – the new story continues ! Rosamund comes face to face with Magua ! Thank you Mohawk Woman. My inspiration was the Aphra Behn, a British playwright and poet who acted a spy for Charles II when conflict began in Antwerp. I was a little hesitate to start this story, I didn't want Rosamund to be the same as Robin in my other story ' The Fox and the Robin'. This story isn't quite as written out as my other fanfiction, but hopefully it will develop.

Also, there is quote in there from Elizabeth Kenny, who was from the 19th century…but I really like the quote and have included it XD

Also regarding the Cherokee issue – I am aware that Wes Studi who originally played Magua was Cherokee, but it was not the reason for my decision. One of my main reasons for choosing the Cherokee to feature in my story because of their diverse history of external marriages. There are historical figures such as James Vann, (Scottish), Willaim Hicks (Swiss) and John Ross (Mixed ancestry) who were born and raised amongst the Cherokee despite their different ancestry. This is also due the fact the Cherokee practiced matriarchal dominated parentage, and through the blood/ or adoption of the mother, the child could inherit her clan and become a member of the tribe. From what I had read, around this time (1700s), the Cherokee were in a different geographic location as to their modern location (N/S Carolina and Oklahoma). Before the Trail of Tears (1838-39) The Cherokee Nation were more widespread in other areas, and like many other tribes, practiced nomadic migrations in accordance with the seasons. The Cherokee nation were also built up of numerous sub-divisons, or 'clans', and were not always unified and located in a single location. There have been reports of Cherokee pushing up as far as Virginia. The Trail of Tears was the result of the Indian Removal Act, which saw that five of the 'civilised tribes' (Cherokee, Muscogee, Seminole, Chickasaw, and Choctaw nations) forcibly removed from their ancestral homelands and resettled in 'Indian territory', which is now where many still remain. Also, I never said exactly where Rosamund originally was. I am placing her much further south, as she won't actually be going to Fort William for quite some time. But I will also admit my geography is not as good as it could be. I am from England, so everything is within a days travel or so. I forget how big America really is, and looking at maps leaves a lot to the imagination.

Do correct me if I'm wrong. Being in England we actually don't get taught about any of American/ Native American history, so everything presented has just been what I've found, and could possibly be misrepresented. Apologies in advance. On with the story !

* * *

Rosamund inwardly cringed. Of all the people in the world, it had to be Magua who had found her. If it were a French platoon or trappers, then she would have had a greater chance of escape and evasion. But being a prisoner of Hurons was a different matter. They were a fiendish people, who knew the land far better than she did. Rosamund was far more disadvantaged than she realised. Now she could understood why they didn't pursue her across the river; because they didn't need to. The French had already seemingly bought the Cherokee's allegiance and the moment Rosamund stepped into Cherokee country, she was trapped. The Hurons at some point must have overtook her and arrived before her to set up the trap. In all honesty, if Rosamund hadn't been the prey, she would have been impressed in the grander scheme of things. She was willing to admit Magua had experience she lacked, and now with the Cherokee sided against the British, her allies were few and far between. Despite her grave situation, Rosamund turned to face her pursuers with an expression of indifference. Magua stood amongst his pack of warriors, sneering like a proud coyote. She frowned, remembering the first time she met this Huron devil…

 _It was a horrible, stormy night. A French patrol had returned from combat with heavy casualties. She spent tireless hours tending the wounded, knowing very well many would not survive the night. Again, she faced a bitter inner conflict. She was tending the very wounded and dying of her enemies, when it was her own countrymen who had attacked them. But such was the ugly face of war. It spared no one. In the end, whether French or British, all died the same. Some of them died with the names of loved ones on their lips, others with their eyes gazing off, longing for the homes they would never see again. One patrolman grasped at Rosamund's hands, declaring his sins in hopes of absolution, perhaps hoping she was a forgiving clergyman. His face was so disfigured with battle wounds, he was more or less left blinded. As he passed away, still clutching Rosamund's hand, she said nothing. She tried to offer what little genuine comfort she could muster, but there were so many that night. Eventually, she stopped trying. There were too many, and still more unaccounted for. Those who had died at the scene of conflict were left behind, their corpses left to the mercy of the elements and scavengers. From what she had gathered from one of the survivors, the French patrol was meant to monitor the main foot paths through the woodlands when a British battalion ambushed them. Two French officers and their head scout were among the wounded. The officers were treated right away, though one eventually died from his injuries. The head scout who was severely wounded in the ambush was an Indian, and quickly overlooked by the doctors and other nurses. His fellow tribesmen hounded someone treat him, shrieking in their devilish tongue and scaring the other nurses away. Eventually, they found Rosamund. She had just finished bandaging a head wound when one of them jerked her away. She had protested furiously, battering the Huron's arm with her fists, until she thrown to the side of a stable._

 _There she found him, slumped like a lifeless bale of hay. She was sure he was already dead, he looked so still and pale. He didn't even stir when she tapped him. From what she could see, he had been shot in the shoulder; the wound was already inflamed and caked with dried blood. Someone had attempted to dress the wound, but in the wet and humid conditions, infection was quickly setting in. The rest of the Hurons watched her, like a pack of wolves. They expected her to help their fallen brother and she dare not refuse._

 _She checked for a pulse, and was surprised to find it was beating strong, despite the obvious bodily trauma. He was alive. By no means was he a young man, he actually seemed to be the eldest of Huron party. His body bore many scars, some had healed better than others. He was tall, but lean. Not stocky or overly muscular. He reminded her of a coyote, or even a fox. He sported a peculiar hair style, known to the natives as a scalp lock. Many tribes considered excessive hair as unsightly, and so regularly plucked it. A majority of the Huron's hair was shaven down to the scalp, with only a small section left untouched apart from a few assorted braids and a stray feather. Rosamund was struck the rich colour of his skin in contrast with her own as she tentatively began to inspect the wound. The musket ball was still embedded in his shoulder and would need to be removed to avoid fatal lead poisoning and infection. Cautiously, she selected her makeshift tools. His followers were watching her every move with scrutiny, looking ready to pounce at the slightest mistake. Fearing the worst, Rosamund continued. Despite her determined attentions, the wounded chief didn't stir. He was either heavily intoxicated, or close to death. The smell wafting under his breath suggested the former. Perhaps one of his followers had administered some potent whiskey…_

 _Nonetheless, it eased Rosamund's burden. During surgery, thrashing patients risked inflicting more damage than the actual wound. She was relieved to retrieve the musket ball in one piece, but was also to surprise the little damage it had actually done. A musket could shatter bone, tear through muscle and pierce vital organs. Dousing the wound with alcohol, Rosamund deduced the musket ball may have ricocheted off a tree or rock and lost some of its velocity, before striking the Huron's shoulder. It would seem he was a lucky man. Eventually the Hurons shooed her away, satisfied with her work. They carried their wounded comrade away on a makeshift stretcher made from a blanket, and vanished into the night. A few days later, Rosamund spotted the Huron alive and well, walking around the fort with his shoulder still bandaged. She didn't know if he remembered the ordeal. If he did, then he never acknowledged it. He and his men left the Fort later that day._

Rosamund hid her inner fears behind a well-practiced grin, as the Huron came forward to bind her wrists, "I should have let you die that night, had I known what trouble you would cause me"

The Huron did not reply, though she knew he understood her. Instead he jerked her restraints, tightening them to the point of discomfort. As Rosamund was led away, now a captive, she couldn't help but contemplate her situation. Despite her short few years of espionage for the British, she had never been captured. She had always managed to slip away when danger grew too great. For now she knew her life was safe, to a degree. If the French were offering a reward for her capture, then it was likely she would be handed over to them for interrogation or ransom. Neither seemed particularly favourable. King George II's made her position clear. If she returned to England with the information, then she would hailed as a hero. But if she was captured by the enemy, then they would deny everything and she would be left to fend for herself. The sooner she could escape from Magua and his men, the sooner she escape back to Britain. She would have to find another way to send her information to Fort William Henry. The distance was becoming too great to cover, now that she had a target on her back. She had to come up with a new plan. Change and adapt, that was Rosamund's motto.

They marched for hours, taking routes Rosamund was initially unfamiliar with, probably in an attempt to disorient her. Perhaps that's how they managed to arrive at the Cherokee village before her, she wondered. There was still much of the frontier left uncharted. Routes and woodlands passages still undiscovered. Rosamund almost marvelled at the awe inspiring rocky landscape, if sharp peddles on the path weren't cutting into her bare feet. She now regretted abandoning her boots. Perhaps it was another one of Magua's well thought tactics. Taking a rocky, stone laden path would no doubt hinder any shoeless captive's escape. Yet Rosamund said nothing, certain any complaints and pleas would fall on deaf ears. She stopped only when the hunting party stopped. From the dark brooding clouds looming over head, it seemed another storm was about to rage. The warriors quickly replenished their water supply by a stream, before scouting for a place to take shelter. Rosamund took the opportunity to soak her feet in the stream, with Magua looming close by. A young boy came to offer her water, much to her relief.

As she drank greedily, Rosamund could see the battle-scarred warrior watching her from the corner of his eye. He was studying her. After some time, he began to bait his captive, hoping to gauge a response. "French brothers have placed a high price on your pretty head." When he received no reaction, he continued, "Fifty gold coins. More than enough to buy new rifles for Hurons."

Rosamund snorted derisively, splashing some water on her face. "Only fifty? My, my, the French are becoming cheap. I'm almost insulted. The British would pay more"

Magua's eyes narrowed. She was hiding behind veiled humour, making it harder to gauge her true emotions. Other white captives would have been in hysterics, crying and pleading for mercy for fear of their impending fate. Yet Rosamund was eerily calm, while offering no resistance…yet. Magua crouched beside her, daring to stare into those crafty green eyes of hers. "You caused much trouble. French brothers are still recovering their horses and supplies. A French fort burned because of you." The aged warrior never would have thought one white woman could have caused so much damage.

But she smiled in amusement, as if she was nothing more than a disobedient child. "Ah, if only there were a few Hurons there to burn with it. Tell me, Mister Magua, when the great Hurons become the French's hunting dogs? Have you lost your honour to the likes of whiskey and rum?"

She expected the strike but was still unprepared. The force of his blow sent her back, and for a moment the side of her face throbbed in searing pain. Yet she chuckled, even with blood trickling from her lip, much to Magua vexation. She masked her pain, laughing through it. Finally, she sat herself up, noting a few of the warriors were now watching their violate exchange. Licking the blood from the corner of her mouth, she sniggered, "those who angers you, conquers you."

Magua grunted, realising she was toying with him, testing him as he had done to her. "You play a dangerous game, woman." He hissed before yanking her to her feet. The party were moving on as heavy rain had begun to fall. Struggling to her feet, Rosamund spat the excess blood from her split lip, "a game I intend to win."

* * *

They had found shelter in nearby caves. It was pitch black at first, yet strangely humid and well insulated. The men quickly built small fires and began taking articles of clothing off as to dry them. It seemed they were going to be spending the night there, as some had already made makeshift beds. Magua was the last to settle. He sat Rosamund down roughly, and then went round to some of the warriors, conversing in what she could only assume was their native tongue. Rosamund spoke fluent French, and of course some Cherokee, but she struggled to learn some of the other native languages. She huffed, disliking the disadvantaging. Instead she settled for sheer observation. She counted the number of the warriors, their weapons, and even tried to discern their personalities. But many of them were as stoic as she was. She was impressed with their discipline, though none paid much attention to her. Admittedly, she was starting to get bored of this captive nonsense, but escape in her current state would be foolish. She had now learnt Magua was not one to stay his hand. She could only assume what he was truly capable of, if provoked. She would have to bid her time, and wait for the opportunity to present itself.

Magua eventually returned and began building a fire.

"You do not wish me to prepare your food? I am a good cook" She offered innocently.

Yet Magua pointedly refused. "Behind those innocent eyes, Magua can see the devil cat in you" He scoffed, striking a flint and rock, creating a small flame, "Magua would not trust you with knife."

She nodded solemnly, "You are a wise man." She could see her usual charms would not work on him. Instead she lounged back, trying to find a comfortable spot. "But there is more than one way to kill a man. The knife is not always the answer"

With the fire slowly burning, Magua ate small rations, silently pondering. She could see she had made him curious. Finally, he asked the inevitable question, "Have you killed many men?"

"That is my little secret."

Magua grunted at her, realising she had baited him again. "White woman knows many secrets. French brother tells Magua you are two face, one who walks among enemies unseen. Like sickness, you attack from inside. When you are discovered, it is too late and people die."

She thought for a moment, considering his words. "Yes, I suppose that is a good way of putting it." She didn't appear remorseful, or even bothered about. Yet again, Magua couldn't read her expressions easily. It made him wonder, just how long had she been playing this game? And what had started it all?

She was a young woman, younger than him at least. By now she should surely have been married. Where was her husband? Surely he didn't approve of her dangerous adventures? Magua frowned. Even if Tako'skowa had a husband, he doubted she would be an obedient, submissive wife. Her beautiful face hid a tenacious nature and a nasty bite. Magua did not often find white women pleasing to the eye. They were too pale and small. Too thin and timid, dressed in ridiculous garbs and ruffles. They were taught to be lazy, and made slaves of their men. But this woman was the different. As she sat away from him, seemingly content, he studied her. She wasn't like any white woman he had seen before. She was as tall as a man and lean like a big cat. Her lithe figure held stamina, as expected given she had eluded his men for many days; an impressive feet by any standard, though the exhaustion had clearly taken its toll. Now she looked tired, and given the thinness of her face, she was also hungry. Rations amongst the French had been wearing thin. Her cheek bones were slightly prominent, and the slight section of exposed collar bone was taunt. If not for her honey kissed skin, Magua would consider her sickly looking now. For a brief moment, Magua considered offering her food. But then decided against it. In her weakened state, she was more docile.

Rosamund was slowly falling asleep, hoping to converse what little energy she had left. Magua, on the other hand, felt restless. He hadn't had such a satisfying chase in months. The first few days of following her travels were the most frustrating. Every time his tracker picked up the white woman's trail, it led them to a dead end. Clearly she had been taught how to track and conceal, perhaps from the Cherokee. He wasn't surprised to have learned she lived among them at one point, as many tribes had birthed and adopted those of white blood. But she also had natural talent and cunning. On one occasion, they followed a set a boot prints to an open meadow and confident that they had finally cornered their elusive prey. But there was no woman in sight. Only a doe grazing on the grass, with a pair of shoes tied to two of her hooves. A few of the men were convinced she was witch and had turned her-self into a deer in order to escape them. If Magua was not so enraged at the time, he would have found it amusing. Yes, she was a crafty creature and already she was casting a spell on a young Huron warrior. The adolescent had accompanied the tracking party to observe and gain experience. It must have been his first time seeing a white woman, given his strong reaction. He gawked openly, clearly entranced by the exotic creature. Her golden blonde curls bounced with every movement, much to his fascination. Earlier when offered water, Rosamund blushed and fluttered her eyes, like a shy maiden; even though the boy was probably ten years her junior. Magua was not fooled by her coy antics. Clearly she was trying to build a repose with him. When young buck grew too close to her in the caves, Magua sent him away. When it came to women, some men's hearts became too soft and weak. Magua could not afford the white woman gaining any advantage among his men. In the morning, they would rendezvous with their French brothers and collect the reward. What became of the white woman after that was no concern of his. Stealing a glance at her prone form, he found she was staring at him. Those eyes…they haunted him…

* * *

A battalion of French soldiers was waited to greet them later the next morning. Marquis de Moncalm was with them, situated at the front on horseback. As Rosamund was marched before him, a slither of a sneer crept along his face. "Ah, it is good to see you again, Madam LeBeau. Though that's probably not your real name, is it?"

"That would be correct" She mimicked the French accent flawlessly.

"Then what is your name?"

She dropped her accent, and her amused expression. "That would be none of your business"

The French general held up his hands in a gesture of peace. "No need for such hostiles, ma petite. I bear no ill intentions towards you."

Rosamund, however, was not so easily convinced by his honey toned words. "Oh?" she scoffed. "Why so forgiving?" The French were as treacherous as they were tenacious. Rosamund took everything the Marquis has to say with a pitch of salt.

The aging man dismounted, twirling his riding crop as he inspected his troops, appearing not in the least bit interested in the beautiful british prisoner. "Because nothing irrevocable has been done…yet". Finally he turned to face her. "I trust you have not be able to communicate with any of your British contacts, what with monsieur Magua keeping you indisposed. Therefore no sensitive information has fallen into British hands."

"Correct" She admitted, albeit grudgingly.

The Marquis smiled thinly, gesturing to his attendant to come forward. The young man came forward tentatively, cradling a small chest. Nervously, he offered it to the Hurons congregated nearby. Magua inspected the contents, with greedy pleasure. Fifty French gold pieces, as promised.

Rosamund frowned. From what she had learned before her discovery, the French were running low on funds. The French king had spent so much on the war that now France was starting to suffer economic decline. Where had they procured such finances, so readily?

The Mariquis's southern French overtone burned her ears, "I have had time to think about this, Madame…"

"Boudica" she supplied absently, still lost in thought.

The corner of Montcalm's mouth ticked in annoyance. "Madame, I am prepared to offer you amnesty."

That got her attention. "Amnesty?" Rosamund gave a humourless chuckle.

"Oui. I, like many others, was impressed with your daring espionage and escapades." His left eye twitched, ever so slightly. He was lying, Rosamund was sure of it. His gaze was hard and rigid. His posture tight, and uncompressing. He wasn't impressed at all. He was seething, and trying his best to hide it. After all she had infiltrated one of his bases of operation, jeopardized future military movements and made a mockery of the French military. Bargaining with this woman was like sipping sour English gin. It left an unpleasant taste in his mouth. He spoke slowly and carefully, gritting his teeth, "the French would greatly benefit from a woman of your skills. Name your price."

Her eyes narrowed, as if insulted. "I won't be bought, Marquis."

"France would welcome you. If you were a friend to the French-"

"And a traitor to the British?" She hissed with venom dripping from her words. "Don't insult me with your patronising offers. You think I would sell my soul to you French devils? I'd rather die."

The Marquis was losing his composure, as well as his patience. "You realise, madam, the penalty for any found guilty of espionage is death!"

Rosamund then went quiet, as if pacified for the moment. Yet a chill went up the men's spines when she began to chuckle. "Then surely I am guilty as sin." She was grinning, like a mad woman.

The Marquis finally gave up trying to reason with her. "Then die your martyr's death. You may be Britain's Joan of Arc"

Instead of weeping at her fate, Rosamund sneered, "I've always felt myself akin to Judith. Alas, at least she triumphed beheading her enemy. I can't help but feel I have fallen short."

The Marquis recoiled, as if bitten and retreated back to his mount. "You vile woman."

Magua watched the vicious exchange with mild interest and grudging awe. The woman had gall. Even in the face of death, she was as unyielding. Even his men were impressed. Bravery in the face of was death was admirable, but so was humility. Rosamund did not weep, nor wail or cower. If she had Magua would have pitied her more, but have respected her less. She had made peace with her impending death, and for some time it seemed. Even when she was ordered to her knees, she held her head held and shoulders back. She refused to falter before the enemy. She faced the morning sun and waited.

The Marquis ordered his young steward forward. Out of all his skilled soldiers and lieutenants, he chose a boy to deliver the kill shot. The poor boy was shaking, his musket pistol unsteadily wavering in his grip. Her eyes must have unnerved him. He looked petrified, as if he was the one facing the end of the barrel. Rosamund almost pitied him. Clearly the boy hadn't seen battle yet, and it would seem he could not be able to stomach the bloodshed either. With the poor aim the shot would likely maim Rosamund with the first shot, rather than kill. Perhaps that was the Marquis's intentions. Perhaps he wanted her to suffer. Magua was disgusted with the thought. Whilst most of his men had lost interest and withdrew from the area, he remained. Though death and ritual torture had become part of his quest for vengeance, not even he could tolerate the thought of such injustice. He advanced upon the boy, shoving him away as he drew his tomahawk from his belt. One strike to her soft temple and it would be over. A quick and merciful death. That was all he could offer her. As he loomed over her, tomahawk raised, Rosamund glanced at him over her shoulder.

Those eyes…Magua watched the fires dance in the depths of her green eyes. They were the sort of eyes men's hearts drowned in. They blazed as well as enchanted. He could not bear their unwavering gaze.

"Close your eyes, Tako'skowa"

She seemed heartened by his gesture, as macabre as it was. But she shook her head, "Avert not thine eyes. I do not fear what comes next…"

* * *

A/N – Sorry this took me longer than I thought, that last bit was hard to write, just not feeling the mood even though I like this story. Life is busy ! What do you think ? ? ?


	3. Chapter 3

A/N – The saga continues ! Tintenfleck I don't quite follow a linear story line, there is still a lot to be revealed ;-)

* * *

1576 – Britain

The royal steward scampered through the vast hallways of the great Kensington palace. The king had beckoned for his guest.

Having been lead through the King's staircase, the entrance to the king's statement apartment, Rosamund waited to be received. It was late in the evening, with many having already retired to their chambers for the night. It was the perfect time for a secret liaison, under the cover of growing darkness. Flame by flame, the palace lanterns were extinguished. The soft scent of smoke lingered down the halls.

Despite the dull light, Rosamund stood admiring the King's favourite piece of art. Venus and Cupid, by Giorgio Vasari, c.1543. The breath taking oil and panel depicted the goddess Venus reclining naked on a blue satin cloth, with Cupid embracing her from behind. As he kisses her, she removes an arrow from his quiver. The artistic allegory was clear, illustrating the terrifying power of beauty disarming love. Although, Rosamund found the painting somewhat ambiguous; as Venus steals Cupid's arrow she seems about to wound herself by the other arrows sliding of the quiver. A curious notion, beauty which enchants also wounds. Rosamund could only envy the deity. To be so beautiful, so powerful, but also so well loved. One could only dream of such worldly desires.

Adrift in her musing, the soft tapering of the steward's feet announced his arrival before he even spoke. He bowed in greetings, "Lady De Vere…his majesty permits your audience."

The steward led Rosamund deeper into the inner privy chambers. Velvet curtains had been drawn shut, blocking out all light and prying eyes. She was about to commit an act utterly unheard of. Rosamund entered the king's private chambers, unattended. None entered bar the king. Even for carnal visits, the king would always visit his wife or mistresses' chambers. Yet this meeting was of the upmost importance. Soon, years of toil would come to fruition. Tonight, she would be rewarded.

A mass of the chamber were shrouded in darkness. Rosamund spared but a moment to adjust her eyes. Despite the king's wealth and royal blood, his private room was rather empty; devoid of luxury, save the looming canopy bed and a small burning lantern at the bedside table. The curtains of the grand sized bed had been pulled closed, with only a slither of a gap left open. In the soft candle light he could see her, yet she could not see him. Her keen emerald eyes could only perceived the outline of his figure, though her gaze soon fell to the floor.

"Your Majesty", she knelt graciously. She waited to be acknowledged.

"You have done your country a great service. We are in your debt." His voice rumbled like cautious thunder. He sounded…tired.

King George II was, by any standards, now an old and withered man. Although not well liked when he ascended to the throne, he made do with what he had. In the prime of his youth, he was a tall man with bulging Hanoverian blue eyes. Compared to previous monarchs, some would have described the king's intelligence as limited at best, with a vain and obstinate personality to match. At times, he suffered bouts of rage and arrogance. But age seemed to have mellowed him, though his love of opera and music remained as did his interests in history and military memorabilia.

The king spoke again, "As per our agreement, the De Vere name and reputation shall be expunged of all previous transgression, and hereby sealed by order of the crown."

Rosamund's mask of indifference shattered. She smiled with utter relief, tears misting her vision. "My sincerest gratitude, your majesty."

She then left, never one to overstay her welcome. She needed no further confirmation, the king's word is law, his promise sacred. She had been paid in full for her services in America. Years of hard work had finally paid off.

Having made her way out of the palace and out into the court yard gardens, Rosamund was greeted by a familiar face; Thomas Pelham-Holles, 1st Duke of Newcastle, and current Prime Minister.

Right hand man of King George II greeted her with a half hearted bow. Clearly he had been waiting some time for her, judging from the pocket watch in his hand. Where he lacked business savvy logic and impartial discretion, he excelled in industry and used patronage liken to carrot or stick method of control. Although a fine courtier, his occasional buffoonish mannerism annoyed Rosamund, but at that moment, she was rather charmed by him. He was only a decade younger than the king, though years of politicians and parliamentary debates had left him looking haggard and drawn out.

They lingered in the shadow of the palace court yard, never directly acknowledging each other. Rosamund strolled almost leisurely, inspecting the spring flowers in bloom. Casually, over the shoulder, she asked "What is my next assignment?"

"There is none"

She halted in mid stride. "I beg your pardon?"

The aging minister subtly adjusted his iconic white powdered wig, muttering just loud enough for Rosamund to hear, "The king wishes you to have a quality of life, Lady De Vere. Your mission was successful. You may enjoy early retirement, while you're still young"

"Early retirement?" She blinked absently. "Oh no…no, no, no!"

She turned to face the statesman, practically seething. "What am I? A racing mare left out to passage?"

She had devoted the better part of a year buried deep in French controlled colonies, learning secrets and risking her life. She had made some powerful enemies; but also tasted a life of danger. Returning to civil society seemed almost tedious now. She was nowhere near finished playing her hand in this game of war. The conflicts in America had only intensified, and with the information she had retrieved being compromised with her discovery, more would have to be done to once again gain the advantage. Yet there was more to the picture; there were still many questions that needed to be answered. Where did the French gain extra funding to reward the Hurons? And who really attacked the Cherokee, framing the British? The big whigs in parliament weren't concerned with such enquiries. They wanted facts, not questions and speculations. It angered Rosamund to no end; she was so mad she almost missed Pelham-Holles' attempts to pacify her.

"The king has award you a generous pension, and the estate of your late husband, unchallenged. You will be a rich woman"

"She will be a greedy woman!"

An interloper grumbled from the court yard garden entrance. Rosamund knew the source of this disembodied voice and groaned.

"Lord Harley." Rosamund glowered in annoyance, looking from one vexation to the other. "Showing up uninvited, as always"

Pelham-Holles, sensing the growing tension between the two, quickly made a hasty retreat. He didn't even bid Rosamund 'goodnight'. Coward.

The older gentleman stalked toward Rosamund, spurting accusingly "I know what you're planning, De Vere." The portly man sneered, wagging his bejewelled finger at her as if chiding a blushing maid. "The earldom of Oxfordshire belongs to the Harley family! You have no right to claim it."

Rosamund scoffed at his misplaced paranoia, not even bothering to hide the sharp sarcastic bite in her tone, "Nor do I have the desire, your _Lordship._ "

Lord Harley, the persistent thorn in her side since her return to Britain and current Earl of Oxfordshire and Mortimer. Always fixating on social class and pedigree, he looked as Rosamund as if she was a mongrel in silk and made no attempt to hide these feelings either. He knew of her family's lineage, and feared he may lose his newly acquired titles, one way or another.

Seemingly unconvinced with her statement, Harley adjusted his white breeches and black overcoat, as if flustered for a fight. "Oh? But what about any offspring you may bear? Their ambition may overreach their station."

His narrowed gaze dropped to the swell of her stomach, inciting Rosamund's fury.

She gritted her teeth in sheer vehemence, "You need not concern yourself with such trivial matters, Lord Harley."

"And what measures can you offer to secure such claims?"

Seething at insult Rosamund stalked towards the arrogant fool, aghast at his callous words. Taller than most men, Rosamund towered over him, "I did not bleed as a child. I never became a woman!" Venom and sorrow laced her words.

The topic touched a very tender nerve.

Catching herself, Rosamund stepped away, attempting to compose her lost façade. "Simply put, Your Lordship, I can never have children. No spawn off my womb shall ever trouble you."

Her womanly chalice would forever be empty, just like her stomach had been so many year ago. She still remembered that horrible, harrowing feeling. The wealth of hunger festering in the pit of her stomach. The famine and starvation that plagued her youth had left her poor fragile young body malnourished and withered. Though naturally tall, she was just skin and bones as a child, thin and sickly. Only when she was amongst the Cherokee later in life did she begin to eat regularly and slowly recover from her otherwise famished state. But the damage had been done. Her body had never quite blossomed into womanhood. She never bled her monthly cycle, and though her Cherokee mother comforted her, Rosamund felt she could ever truly call herself 'woman'. She was barren...fruitless…unfinished. Those were the words which haunted her into adulthood. By the time she returned to white society, she was all but considered an empty spinster in the judging eyes of others. Why else would a woman of her age be unwed? She was a woman who could not birth life, her apparent only measure of worth in their 'advanced society'. Some would regard her as worthless. Such as Lord Harley. He now looked at her as if she was a creature to be pitied, like a lame dog.

Rosamund bristled, hearing the tremor of pity which laced his tone, "M-my apologies..." His gaze lingered as her slender form, before his determination hardened. "But your brother, Edward, has children. Two sons if I'm not mistaken."

Rosamund assumed her usual carefree manner, rebuffing him with a haughty chuckle. "I assure you Lord Harley, Edward couldn't care less about estates and titles. He is the most altruistic man I've ever known. Speaking of which, I must take my leave. Good evening!"

She quickly marched into the palace gardens, away from such vexing company. Men like Lord Harley tried her to no ends. Any longer in his presence and she may have forgotten her lady like manners. She had only been back in Britain month and already she felt awry with feelings of discontent and restlessness. London was far too chaotic for her taste, the sooner her business was concluded, the sooner she could retire to her newly rewarded estate.

"Rose!"

Rosamund turned to see the angelic visage of her brother greeting her. She shook her head, exasperated that he had waited out so late to meet her. He stood out like a weed, in tan breeches and plain linen shirt. But he was handsome, like their father.

"How did it go?" He embraced her with the love and warmth only a sibling could offer. Despite the rigid norms of restrictive society, Edward never spared his feelings or affections.

Edward was older than her, by five years. They looked very similar, sharing rich golden curls and strong angular features. His nose was still crooked from a fist fight he lost as a young lad, but other than that many would find him rather good looking. A hard life of labour had made him into a tall, strong man. Where Rosamund inherited her father's keen green eyes, Edward sported their mother's hazel ones. He must have been working the docks, she noticed, seeing the slight colour in his cheeks and tan on his arms. Even married into middle class, he still preferred hard, honest labour.

"It went as well as it could have." She kissed his cheek and continued walking through the gardens. "Even with Lord Harley's unexpected appearance, The King has exonerated our family's name" She couldn't help but smile, "We have everything we could have hoped for now."

"We?" Edward blinked, poking her playfully in his usual teasing manner, "Maybe everything you have hoped for, sister. I have everything already."

Rosamund rolled her eyes. Indeed, during her time away Edward had married and fathered two dashing young boys. His wife, Jane, was a charming young woman; the third daughter of a governor. Perhaps not the best well suited match, seeing as Edward was the son of a rather unsuccessful entrepreneur and had spent most of his youth as a sailor; but they were happy. The marriage secured his future, and that of his children; Edmund and Thomas. Edmund was the eldest at four years of age, whilst his little brother Thomas had only just turned two. It had been a while since Rosamund had visited them; since returning from America she went straight to London to report her findings. It was best, she supposed. The less her brother and family knew about her dealings, the better. When she dared write letters to them, they were but brief snippets and passing greetings.

She suddenly frowned, remembering their prior discussion by letter. "I still don't understand why you wish to settle in America, after I have spent so long setting up an estate here, in our ancestral home. We can finally show our faces in high society once again."

But Edward shook his head, unconvinced. "You think these snobby people will so easily forget our tainted lineage?" He then gestured to the few night owls who still strolled the gardens. When Rosamund curtsied at a courtier's greetings, Edward was stiff to reply. They continued walking, further away from the palace. "Perhaps the De Vere should start anew, overseas?" He took his sister's hand tenderly, hoping to convince her. "You could come with us, Rose. The boat's big enough."

"And be the proverbial fifth wheel?" she scoffed. She'd never admit it, but being around her brother's family pained her. It reminded her of what she could never have. "Nay, your family deserves a fresh start. Far be it for me to hinder that." She paused to admire some of the flowers still in bloom. One in particular caught her eye, wild camassia; she had seen it before during her turbulent travels. "Besides, going back to America may open old wounds"

She could still smell the faint musk of smoke…

* * *

 _Canon fire erupted, shattering the sombre calm. A volley of musket fire soon followed. Earth and soil exploded and ruptured, blurring the vision and confusing the senses. Rosamund threw herself into the long grass, trying to take some form of cover. The French, startled by the ambush, began shoot wildly into the overgrowth. Yet the enemy was well hidden in and amongst the trees, unseen to the naked eye. Then they heard it; an unusual and unmistakable sound announcing the enemy's advancement into battle. Bagpipes. Rosamund could hardly believe it. Scottish infantry men charged into the clearly. The French were aghast, quickly becoming outnumbered by the numerous Scottish companies._

 _Rosamund hurried to free her bound wrists, crawling away from the scene of conflict as she did so. But Magua was upon her. He had also taken cover in the long grass, momentarily enraged at the French's incompetence and cowardice. Yet it creating a good distraction._

 _He ensnared her ankle, dragging her back "Come with Magua, Tako'skowa and live."_

" _I'll give you the same answer I gave the French. Go to hell!" She lashed out, kicking wildly at him._

 _Magua cursed viciously as one of her kicks clocked him square in the jaw, splitting his lip. Having stunned him, Rosamund quickly grabbed the weapon she had concealed, fumbling clumsily and struggling with the ropes. She had only one shot. It was either him or her._

" _You devil woman-" Magua spat the blood from his lip, then stopped._

 _Rosamund was pointing a pistol directly at him. Her eyes danced with treacherous fire._

 _Musket rounds were still flying overhead as the battle around them still raged. Rosamund tried to stay low to avoid the hail of rounds, yet still kept her aim still. Magua again cursed, staring the vexing woman down. Where did she get the weapon from? He gaze then dropped to her visible bosom and the few wrappings of cloth around her waist. From the looks of dishevelled blouse, it seemed she had hid the weapon on her person._

" _Clever woman." Magua sneered, leering at her exposed flesh like a ravenous fox. Again, he advanced on her._

 _She cocked her weapon in return, "You have your bounty. I am of no use to you now."_

 _He eyed her, calculating the risk and reward for seizing her weapon. "Magua has thought of another use for you. French brothers are wasteful, letting such a prize slip through their fingers. You know many secrets."_

" _Secrets I'll take to the grave" she replied defiantly._

" _You only have one shot."_

 _She did not waverer in the face of danger. Even amidst the chaos of war and enemy threat, she remained cold and fiercely determined. "I see only one enemy." She had sent her sights on him, and remained focused on him alone._

 _Magua grudgingly admired her gall. Surveying their surroundings and current situations, he made a final decision. He began to retreat into the long grass. "We are more than enemies, Tako'skowa. We are kindred spirits. We shall meet again. Magua will make sure of it."_

 _With that, Magua then fled the battle, dashing into the tree line to join the rest of his men. Rosamund was not so lucky as to escape the battle unscathed. At first she was relieved the Huron had finally retreated, it was once less threat to worry about. But being in the heart of a battle had its own dangers. As she fled the battle field, a stray musket round had torn through the flesh of her arm, falling her to the ground. The pain was agonising. The blood pouring the wound seared her skin, staining her blouse. The pain left her nearly senseless, as if the devil himself had taken her. Smoke and the smell of gun powder filled the air, wafting with the wind. Her heart was pumping, and the rush of adrenaline that came with it sent her running. In the heat of battle, men fell around her. The blood soaking the ground was still warm. She could feel the dampness of it on her bare feet._

 _When a French soldier crossed her path, rifle raised and aimed on her, she skidded to a halt and tumbled to the grassy floor. Like a spectre of death, he loomed over her ready to strike. A shot rang out and blood stained the blue uniform. The French soldier collapsed to the ground, dead._

 _A strong pair of arms circled her, pulling her to her feet and pushing her towards the cover of the trees. Her vision was blurred, all she could make out was a flash of brightly coloured clothing and dazzlingly red hair. Before she passed out, a loud voice shouted over the chaos._

" _Yoo're safe noo, wee lass."_

 _When Rosamund regained consciousness, there was only silence. The fighting had stop and the day had been won. Her rescuers were none other than a company of Scots. She had heard of the famous Black Watch before; the newcomers to Britain's battles. Officially, they were known as the 42_ _nd_ _(Highlander) Royal Regiment of the Foot. With only 13 companies of 1'300 men, led by Lord John Muarry, these men were regarded as Britain's wild cards. From what she had learnt talking to lieutenant McGuffin, the highlanders had arrived in May to act as reinforcements for besieged British troops. They were meant to dock in New York by June, but a terrible storm had docked them in Virginia instead. From New York they would then march to Albany. Rosamund was astonished at their bravado. But then again, she had done the exact same thing. Partially on horseback, it took her just over a week. But with a large group of men, possible enemy engagements, it would take them longer._

 _Gingerly, she sipped at the hot coffee offered to her, "So you're going to march through Mary land and Pennsylvania up to New York, just for the sack of it?" She tried to hide her scepticism._

 _These men didn't even have a scout to lead the way, and from the looks of the maps she was shown, they only had a rough idea of where they were going. Admittedly, she shouldn't complain. It was because of those wayward maps the Scottish company were led astray off the trail, destined to cross paths with the French. Lieutenant McGuffin, a bear of man who carried off the battle field, was a right character. Loud, abrasive, and tough but also good humoured and almost charming, in a highlander sort of way. He insisted Rosamund ride his horse as they travelled out of French territory whilst he walked on foot. To preserve her modesty, he offered her his spare linen shirt and regimental jacket. A decade or two older than her, he acted almost fatherly. Always laughing with his men and regaling her with their military adventures and victories. He was definitely a man who liked to toot his horn. When they stopped for breakfast at a makeshift camp, he explained how they came about in America._

" _Well, our ship wis damaged in a hell of a storm. It cwid take months tae restore it, wating fur the supplies an labour. We've been given our orders. If we merch on foot noo, we'll reach New York bi June." In his usual good nature, lieutenant McGuffin laughed at the otherwise disastrous circumstances._

" _What about hostiles?"_

 _Waving his fist, he declared "We gave tham a rite good thrashing they won't soon forget. Word ah'll spread nae tae challenge the 42nd Highlanders." His men cheered behind him._

 _Rosamund couldn't help but smile, looking about as the men enjoyed their makeshift breakfast. "You're brave men."_

 _Scoffing his food, the burly Scotsman replied "ye looked pretty brave out aire yourself, lass. That injun wis ready tae flog ye dead"_

 _Tightening the blanket around her, Rosamund tensed. "You were watching?" Although these men were allies, Rosamund did not trust easily. Already she had been betrayed by those she thought she could trust._

 _Yet he disarmed her, bursting out laughing and smacking his hand on his knee. "Aye, ye gave those French toads a ripe fierce tong' lashing too." He took a swig of his coffee, toasting her "Ye a wee brave lass!"_

 _Again his men cheered. These Scotsmen were a lively bunch, their tenacious nature and energetic attitude was invigorating for her otherwise weary soul._

 _Ever cautious, Rosamund muttered"Then you know…"_

" _Yoo're a spy? Aye" He served her a helping of fire cooked sausages and beans from his rations. He encouraged her to eat, having already taken his fill. He then sat on the log opposite her, carrying on with his morning routines of weapon inspections and dress. They wore regimental military dress, proudly donning kilts, and bright red jackets. Everyman carried a pistol, dagger and sabre. Lieutenant McGuffin sported a rather flamboyant balmoral cap decorated with an ostrich plume hackle._

" _If ye don't min' me askin' lass, why pit yerself in such danger?"_

 _Rosamund took a moment to consider her words carefully. It was often a question she herself asked. But the answer was always the same. "It's a matter of family honour."_

" _Ah." He nodded "Ye been slighted?"_

" _Something like that." She looked away, not wanting to go into too much detail._

 _McGuffin seemed to respect this and changed the subject, "Mah brood hae a motto y'know. Cha togar m' fhearg gun dìoladh."_

 _She blinked at the gibberish he just spoke, clearly unfamiliar with the Gaelic speech. "And what does that mean?"_

" _No a body cuts me wi' impunity. No slight goes unpunished". He explained. When she didn't quite understand him, he then pointed to the dried out thistle pinned to his chest, "Like th' thistle, any tryin' tae cut it gits a handful of painful barbs."_

" _I like that"_

 _He smiled, "That's a wee bit of highlander wisdom fur ye" He stood, offering his hand to aid her, "Ye have any kin, lass?"_

" _A brother…"_

* * *

From that encounter Rosamund travelled under the protection of highlanders, eventually reaching a British allied controlled port with a ship destined for Britain. Her wound kept her in constant pain. The Scotsmen had tried to treat it the best they could with limited knowledge and supplies, sterilising it with alcohol and dressing it with spare linen rags. The blood had clotted, but constant movement and activity often reopened the wound. On the homeward journey oversea, with poor conditions and hygiene, the wound slowly became infected. The ship's surgeon, a local quack, was useless in Rosamund's opinion. She threatened murder when he approached with his tools of torture. Instead, she felt she'd fare better with her own expertise and made do; whilst burning with fever she tourniquet the wound with scraps of fabric and spare rope. She purged the area the best she could with a small table knife, draining the diseased fluids and pus from the bloody flesh before cleansing it with salt water. The pain doubled, seizing her body in a fit of hellish agony. By then, after weeks of exhaustion and weakness, she passed out. A cabin boy later found her and called for assistance. Though she much rather have preferred to purge wound by fire, she was too exhausted and sick to continue her own treatment. She spent the remainder of the voyage confined to a bed space, drifting in between unconsciousness and reality. Though crude and improvised, the treatment seemed to have worked, to a certain degree. The wound neither healed as well as she had hoped, or worsened as she may have feared. Her first priority after the water trek was to get in contact with his royal majesty's agents and get proper treatment. Or at least divulge the information she had learnt on her death bed.

After a few days of rest and medical attention, Rosamund slowly recovered. Though she should have remained confirmed to her bed for further rest and recovery, she was determined to return to action. The wound was now scabby and unattractive, heavily bandaged and hidden over the layer of clothes she had worn, despite the warming weather. The constant ache distracted her from her brother's ramblings.

He noticed her absent stare and paused, looking at her with what she could only assume was worry and disquiet concern. "You never told me what happened to you back in America."

She never even told him why she travelled there in the first place. Quickly she assured him, "Nothing of tremendous disturbance." But of course she lied. As much as her older brother tried to protect her, it was she who always shielded him from the horrors of the world she had seen. Her brother was a simple man, of even simpler pleasures. He had never fought in Britain's wars, and she hoped he and his sons never would. It was no place for the faint of heart. Rosamund did not think her brother had it in his heart to take a human life. What must he think of her? How many had she killed in the name of duty? She'd lost count.

Rosamund took his hand, patting it affectionately as she spoke "Go to America, Edward. Start a new life. Just please be safe." Her grip tightened, ever so slightly as she continued. "My sources have told me conflicts in the American colonies have grown worse. The real war has only just begun."

"Your sources?" he snorted, "You wouldn't be talking about those gossiping Bluestocking Society ladies would you? Discussing heated political debates and military strategies at tea again, are we?" Again he chuckled haughtily, childishly mocking her. Though he was the older sibling, Edward was sometimes prone to bouts of childish indolence.

"Mock me if you must, brother" She huffed, quickly dropped the subject, thinking it was best to leave him amused with his own assumption. "My first priority is to rebuild the De Vere legacy. Also, I believe Nicholls's estate has fallen into slight disarray during my absence. I must see that it is restored accordingly."

Edward sniffed slightly, looking somewhat unimpressed with his sister's detached manner. "What woman refers to her late husband by his surname? Better yet, what woman keeps her maiden name after marriage? Why it's practically unheard of."

Ah, William Nicholls, the 'theoretical love of her life'. Or at least, that's what her brother and many others believed. She hasn't thought of him in months. Was that cruel? What kind of a wife- a widow, must we be?

"We just had that kind of relationship." She shrugged somewhat defensively, "I am proud of my De Vere name and Nicholls was kind enough to humour me."

Her brother, bless him, misread her veiled reply. Abruptly he paused, grasping her shoulders tightly, staring at her with intense scrutiny. "Sister, if he mishandled you in any way, surely you feel you can confide in me?"

Rosamund blinked at his overprotective display, and attempted to put him at ease, "I assure you Edward, Nicholls was a gentleman. He never laid a finger on me. Not once…"

She swiftly dropped her emotionless tone led their conversation away from the topic at hand. "Come it's late. I'm sure Jane and the boys miss you." The hour was growing late, and London was a frightful place to be in at night. She bid her brother farewell, hailing a carriage from the street corner. He seemed reluctant to leave her at first, seeing as they had been apart for so long. She did her best to assure her, even inviting him and his family round for a feast before they set sail; if the estate was repaired and presentable by then.

Edward helped his sister into the carriage, patting her cheek affectionately as he did so, "Rest well, sister. I hope that estate isn't too lonely for you."

The carriage took off with a slight jolt, though Rosamund continued to lean out the window, waving at her brother, as he drifted off further into the distance.

* * *

2 months later…

She wasn't happy. She wasn't happy at all. Even with her vast estate and a generous state pension, Rosamund still wasn't happy. Curse her know it all brother. She felt…lonely. On the best of days, her servants annoyed her. They were too prim and proper, servile to a fault. They were previous staff to her husband, William, whom they were far better acquainted with. Perhaps they found their mistress's demeanour and usual routines slightly curious

Every morning she would wake with the sun rise, and ready herself for the day, refusing much assisted from her chamber maids. The only time she permitted anyone in her chambers was when the effort of dresses in courtly appeal was too great. Usually Rosamund was dressed in finest silks and fabric gowns. The current courtly fashion was somewhat racy for her taste, what with the low-necked gown worn over a rather heavy petticoat. It displayed the dressing of her wound horribly. At least it had some mobility, with the gown's skirt parting in the front. The parting displayed a decorative stomacher, pinned to the gown over the laces or to the stays beneath. Close-fitting sleeves, trimmed with frills or ruffles, clung just below the elbow. It was tight and most constrictive gown, though the detail and rich colour was strikingly beautiful. She should have felt like a tiger lily in bloom, instead of a pale daisy, painted and stained. How she detested the favoured perfumes of court. She could smell an approaching courtier a mile away. Daily visits to the royal court improved her standing and reputation, though she often avoided the unnecessary parties and social gatherings. The heavily populated dance hall often lead to clumsily courtiers bumping into her and aggravating her wound. When avoiding such tiring events, Rosamund focusing on rebuilding her estate. The gardens and grounds were redeveloped and transformed into beautiful scenery and botanical patches. She even rented out patches of land to small farming communities, allowing animals to graze the overgrown feeds in return to for fresh goods and services. The manner soon became a self-reliant estate. Not that Rosamund entertained much. The estate was her own sanctuary from the world, filled with a growing number of books and impressive pieces of arts. Every so often she would entertain a visiting scholar, out of the king's request or her own whim. She was fast becoming a patron of the arts and humanities, again adding to her standing in society.

It seemed like such a trivial matter; the pursuit and importance of pedigree and class. But it was a necessary evil in order to reclaim her family's lost birth right. Many generations before her birth, the De Vere family name fell into ruin. One a noble pillar of society, they held the earldom of Oxfordshire for over seven hundred years. In the sixtieth century, Edward de Vere, the 17th Earl of Oxford ruined the family honour with his lecherous scandals and affair. Seducing Anne Vavasour, a Maid of Honour to Elizabeth I, whilst still married to his first wife, lead to an unwanted pregnancy. This scandal was discovered and both were sent to the Tower of London, where Anne gave birth to a baby born. Edward de Vere went into exile and remarried later in life. Upon his death, his estate and earldom passed over to his legitimate son, Henry De Vere, who became the 18th Earl of Oxford. This inheritance continued until Aubrey de Vere, 20th Earl of Oxford, died in 1703, leaving the earl of Oxford vacant until it was reassigned and merged with the earl of Mortimer. Anne Vavasour remained in exile while her son was raised by relatives, under the de Vere name from whom Rosamund and her family were descended from. Although the blood ties are true, the affair bastardised their claim, throwing the De Vere name into disrepute. Since then, it seemed like her family was cursed with misfortune, misery and death. Though some had tried to regain their lost fortune, many failed, such as Rosamund's father.

Her father and mother were as well off as they could be when they married. After all, they married for love, which was more than most could have. Her father was a hardworking honest man, always trying to better his fortune for the sake of his family. Her patient mother diligently supported his trials, alongside raising their children. They weren't rich, but they were happy. Her father found odd jobs, learnt different trades and travelled in hopes of gaining better finance. In 1750, when Edward was old enough, the two journeyed to America to seek fortune. Months later, they returned with little, other than stories of colonists' battle with natives.

That winter that year was particularly bitter and Rosamund's mother soon fell sick. She was bedridden in the small public house they shared with others. In early March, an earthquake shook the city of London, causing damage and disturbances. The tremor was so severe that the rocks from the cliffs of Dover had collapsed into the sea. Structurally weakened buildings collapsed like dominos, including the poor lodgings similar to where Rosamund and her mother, as well as many others, had taken shelter. The roof caved in before the walls themselves crumbled, burying people alive. Many were trapped under the rumble, with no hope of escape. By the time members of the public had excavated the site, pulling wounded from the remains, her mother was one of the ones laid amongst the dead. Rosamund had only barely survived, her small frame managing to crawl through the rumble to safety as help began to arrive.

By the time her father found her, chaos had ensued and captivated the city. Rosamund's mother had been excavated and buried in a mass grave near the church's graveyard. Needless to say, Rosamund's father was devastated at the loss of his beloved wife. He mourned her only as long as his duty to his children would allow. At the time, Rosamund admired that. Even in the wake of his own despair, he placed the importance of his children above his own grief. Though her father had not found enormous fortune in America, but with little else left in Great Britain, the motherless family voyaged across the Atlantic. When they arrived and travelled to into Cherokee country, Rosamund was shocked and distressed to find his father had acquired a 'country wife' during his last travels, and who was eagerly awaiting his return. She was a plump but stout Cherokee Woman. Her father never revealed how he had come to know her, and Rosamund wasn't particularly keen on finding out either. In all honesty, Rosamund was unjustly hostile towards the otherwise innocent woman. During their first few hours of meeting her she flat out ignored the woman, refusing to even look at her, much to her father's disapproval. Her Cherokee mother was also less than impressed. When she first laid eyes on Rosamund, she had mistaken her for a newly acquirement slave. She was shocked and horrified to discover that the skinny pale wretch that stood before her was to be her new daughter. Whether Rosamund wished it or not, the Cherokee woman became her mother, feeding and caring for her as if she was her own. It slowly, over time, won Rosamund's affections. She learned her new mother was called Ahyoka, meaning bringer of happiness, or something along those lines. And for a time she did bring happiness back into Rosamund's life. She healed Rosamund's wasted body, and lifted her heavy heart of burdens. Her few years amongst the Cherokee were modest and content. She was generally well received, and though her brother fully assimilated into the tribe, Rosamund exercised an unusual streak of independence and solitary nature. Ahyoka would often complain to her white husband whenever he would take her hunting trips with him. But they always came back with a fat bounty. Her father's hunting skills made him popular amongst the Cherokee, as did his good nature and generosity. His death later was marked as a time of great sadness, both amongst the tribe and between the two siblings. Rosamund silently mourned by the river, throwing peddles at the water in silent grief. It felt like a horrible nightmare, losing a parent to such tragedy.

Yet tonight, a different nightmare visited her. A nightmare which had been haunting her for some time, relentlessly ravaging her sleep. It came whenever her fever flared, and with it, the strangest experience she had ever dreamt. In her slumber, a red wiry fox would stalk her like prey. It was no ordinary fox. It was as big as man, with jagged and bloody teeth. Its eyes were pitch black, bottomless with the never ending hunger of desire. The beast would set upon her, biting her viciously and savaging her body. Valiantly, Rosamund would try and fight it off, yet the beast was persistent, refusing to let her go. Always she would wake with fright, drenched in sweat, aflame with fever. There was no relief from the terror

In her most recent night of affliction, she laid in her bed dazed for what seemed like hours, heat still mercilessly ravaging her body. Her fever was flaring up again and she had not the strength to dull it with medicine. She tossed and turned, burning alive in the thin linen bed shift and silk sheets. She was desperate to end the hellish ordeal. Surely, there was no remedy for such divine punishment.

But then her blood then ran cold. Despite her tired and delirious state, her burry vision had caught sight of something uncanny. The door to her chamber was open, and a shadowy figure loomed in the doorway. Rosamund quickly drew a pistol from the fold of her pillow and took aim. Who dare enter her chamber so brazenly?

"Tako'skowa…"

Her heart seized.

"Magua?"

* * *

A/N – dun dun dahhh ! what do you think ? do not make assumptions just yet, I have a curve ball…or two.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N – ah, I was naughty and tricked a few people, I have tricked you, wait and see why. To answer one question, yes there were some Native Americans who did travel to overseas (most time they were actual captured and sold into slavery) such as the famous Squanto, though some did go to places like England (usually on merchant ships) to act as representatives for their people.

I would like to say here i actually like the character Magua; but I am always conscious of his characterisation. I'm interested in feedback, does he seem realistic (for a fanfic)

Just thinking…I may wish for a Beta for my last of the Mohican stories – this one and The Fox and the Robin. Any takers? It's more someone to talk my story through and receive feedback on ideas.

Another announcement – I will be write yet another Magua/OC story ! stay tuned ! first chapter to follow soon.

* * *

Britain, the Nicholls estate -

Rosamund's heart thundered like a raging storm as a chilling fear ran up her spine. The shadow looming in the doorway; it was Magua. The red devil had somehow followed her across the great waters of the ocean. The nightmares now rang out like a foreboding warning. _He_ was the fox who plagued her dreams; hunting and devouring her in ecstatic savagery. He sought to tear her asunder, render her into pieces, consume her whole.

Relentless fiend! He would not take her without a fight; she took aim and prepared to fire her pistol.

"Lady D-De Vere!" a shrill cry echoed from the darkness.

Rosamund paused. The voice did not sound masculine.

"Magua?"

Slowly, the apparition at the door faded, vanishing with the light of the candle. The fevered madness subsided and Rosamund's vision began to refocus; reality sunk in.

"I-it's Mary! Your ladies' maid!"

"Mag-…Mary?" Rosamund blinked, banishing the haze from her eyes. The chamber matron peered from the doorway, visibly shaking like a spooked rabbit, "Why have you disturbed me at this ungodly hour?"

From the state of Mary's slightly dishevelled dress, Rosamund assumed the matron has dressed in haste, given she hadn't even the time to affix a respectable bonnet over the mess of her thinning brunette curls. But the portly woman still hesitated at the doorway; her temperamental mistress was still absently brandishing the small pistol in her trembling grasp. Finally, she spoke in a cowering tone, offering an envelope on a customary tray, "A letter has arrived for you by courtier. He said it's been marked as urgent."

Rosamund beckoned Mary forward, before hastily snatching at the letter. Perhaps it was from the king, calling her back into service. She dared to hope such fortune.

Upon inspection of the envelope, Rosamund's excitement died; soon to be replaced with dread. The King's stationary would be regally embossed, dignified with the royal seal on equally extravagant parchment. The dispatch held in her hand was stained with dirt and age. The letter itself, stuffed unceremoniously in the ill fitted envelope, was littered with near ineligible scribblings. It reminded her of her brother's little practiced hand. And yet, curiously, it was written in cursive. It took Rosamund a few moments of reading to decipher the nonsensical scribblings.

After some time, Rosamund shot up from her bed, letter crumpled in hand. She dashed across the room to her writing desk, searching through the drawers like a woman possessed.

Mary started yet again at her mistress's frantic behaviour. All she could do was anxiously wait to be dismissed. She looked on as her mistress snatched up a little bible, seeming victorious.

"My Lady?"

Swiftly, Rosamund held the booklet to her breast as if afraid it would be snatched from her at any minute. With a hard stare and thinned lips, she began issuing orders like a seasoned general. "Ready my travelling case, at once. Call Elizabeth in assist me, immediately. Have the stable hand prompt a carriage within the hour and send a runner boy to alert the yardmaster at the dockyard."

Rosamund made her way over to her dressing parlour, muttering to herself, "If I am lucky, I can find a ship and buy passage aboard." Without a notion of modesty, she cast off her night dress and stood only in her shift. Uncaring she began slipping on the underlining of her corset herself, unwilling to wait for the apprenticing lady's maid's arrival.

Mary quickly hurried, ringing the nearby servant bells as she chased after her mistress, "Where will you be travelling to, my Lady?"

Young, sleepy Elizabeth darted in the room, having heard the summoning of the bells. She looked equally ill-dressed as Rosamund -Mary looked practically ready to scold her for such poor, improper dress-, though thankfully their hurried mistress seemed to have paid no attention. She was more focused on getting herself dressed. Elizabeth quickly came to her side, adding with the tying of her corset. The young chamber woman had been quick to learn that when her mistress was in a rush -or a particularly foul mood- she cared little for traditions and proper appearances. Yet, this was only when in the privacy of her personal chambers. Anywhere else and Rosamund may have been forced to delay her travel.

As Elizabeth pulled at the strings of the corset, with a rather painful tug, Rosamund gasped. "America. I must go to America."

Rosamund had herself dressed in her riding habit. Though she was taking her carriage, it was by far one of the simplest articles of clothing she could slip on in haste. More appropriate clothes for later exertions would have to be packed. Within little more than an hour, as planned, Rosamund fled the estate in the carriage just as it was made ready. With less than candid instructions to the carriage driver, they made their way to the nearest port. The awakening staff of the manor looked on as once again their peculiar mistress abandoned her personal domain. The carriage travelled under the cover of darkness, in the early hours of the morning. Rosamund stared out at the passing world, though she paid little heed to the surroundings flying passed.

Edward was missing.

No, for lack of a better word, he had been abducted. It was Jane who had written the letter, and in such haste that it was barely legible. Tears had stained the paper, causing the still wet ink to run cascading trails. In the letter, Jane recounted how men in red British uniforms had come late during the night, knocking down doors and carrying off able fit men under the king's emergency conscription act. There were those in America who no longer wished to fight, who'd rather fight to protect their home and families than fight for the spoils of the king's will. Those who refused the king's edict were seemingly forcibly signed up. Rosamund visibly shuddered, sickened with renewed worry. The thought of Edward fighting in that damnable war sent her into near panic. Even worse, Jane and the boys were now unprotected. Natives were still raiding. French could attack at any given moment. Her first priority would be to find Jane and her sons, ensure their safe and if possible send them back to Britain. Only then could she begin searching for Edward. With any luck, he would have been drafted to a nearby fort and be easy to locate. It would just be a matter of throwing her proverbial weigh around and have him released from service. Absently, Rosamund patted at her right side, reaffirming the little treasure hidden on her person. Over the thundering of the horses pounding at the gravel road, she ordered the driver to hasten their pace. A crack of the whip followed, urging the horses at the helm into a terrified, mad gallop. The rough travel jostled Rosamund back into the cushioned seating of the carriage. The wound at her shoulder throbbed with grudging remembrance; already thoughts of America stirred dark, foreboding thoughts within her. She could not help but wonder if the information she had gathered that long time ago would have actually been of use. Would it have prevented this war from escalating? Probably not. But the king had personal assured her the war was coming to an end, that the French were on the verge of defeat and that to Natives were falling into line.

Rosamund scoffed harshly at the thought.

She should have known better than to leave the tides of war in the hands of mere men. As she had thought openly before; war was best left to women.

* * *

The open sea rolled with waves crashing with tides. Gulls flew overhead, circling a docked ship ready to depart. Yet it remained anchored, fixed in port. It had been for some time and the passengers were growing restless. Travelling by ship was such a bothersome affair, it was long and tedious, not to mention dangerous at times. Travel by sea was only possible when the tides were calm and notable tame. Though their ship was a fast merchant ship, it was not well suited for rough sea travel. The later in the year it got, the rougher and more temperamental the seas became. Alice and Cora Munro could not tolerate a delay in reuniting with their father any longer.

Alice, the less patient of the two, pitter pattered her way over to the familiar gentleman escorting them. "Major Heyward, whatever is the delay? We'll never reach the Americas if we don't ever leave the port."

Alice was truly a lovely vision to behold. She was the pure embodiment of angelic womanhood – at least in Duncan's eyes. She was dressed in her Sunday best; the besotted man sought to move the Heavens and Earth to win her favour. He had been delighted when he had been sent, by Colonel Munro himself no less, to escort the two sisters to America. Having had first met Alice some years ago, when he was fresh, young faced officer making his first voyage to Britain. There he became acquainted with the Munro family; it was Alice, however, who held his undivided attention. Although he found Cora's company pleasant enough, it was truly the gentle nature of her younger sister which won his heart and private affections. Truthfully, he wanted to marry the girl; he just hadn't found the right time to propose such declarations of intimacy. Though he was hardened soldier, the finest born and bred in the Virginia colony, he found himself acutely unnerved by these amorous feelings towards the gentle Alice. Ever the prim and proper gentleman, Heyward did not want to overwhelm the shy lady with his brazen intentions.

Marching with the grace and presence one would expect from an officer in His Majesty's service, Heyward approached the dockmaster, situated not far from their anchored transport ship. He seemed to waiting, checking his watch rather anxiously.

"Dockmaster, we should have sailed an hour ago, what is the reason for tardiness?"

The aging gentleman turned to him before looking back once more to the gates of the dockyard. "A last minute passenger, sent her courtier in the wee hours of morning to buy passage onto ship. Causing a slight upset, showing up out of a the blue, a respectable lady of class, being unescorted and what not." He then paused, craning his head afar. He seemed utterly relieved to see a carriage brawling down the path. "Ah, finally. Here she comes now."

Major Heyward, of superior height, spied the carriage as well. He also spied a familiar emblem brandished on the tackle of the horses and side of the carriage. "That's the Nicholls family crest."

"Aye, physicians to the king. You see now why I was obligated to accommodate her." The dockmaster made sure he was presentable before stepping forward towards the carriage. The horses were panting from heavy exertion; clearly they had been driven hard, even the carriage driver looked ragged and tired. But finally, they had arrived.

The Nicholls were a very wealthy family, with close ties and connections to the King and his court. Whatever would one of their family be doing heading to New York? An unescorted lady no less. Major Heyward, ever the gentleman, stepped forward, intending to comport himself as a represented for His Majesty's British army. He even offered his hand for the lady, expecting she would needed assistance upon exiting the carriage. "Mrs Nicholls. Allow me to bid you a good morning on behalf-"

A sharp tone cut him off. "My name is _Miss_ De Vere"

She did not take his hand. Instead, the tall woman, clad in a red riding habit, exited to carriage of her accord and sauntered passed him. A deep set scowl pinched at her tired features. "I am a widow, shall hence forth use my maiden name. You would do well to remember that."

Major Heyward was taken back by such a cutting tone. And by her abrupt mannerism. Many, especially young ladies, were utterly charmed by his boyish charms. Yet this Lady De Vere looked at him as if he was nothing more than an annoyance. "Oh, I apologise."

Rosamund huffed, green eyes narrowing at him in what he could only assume was offense. Without much delay, she continued her heavy footed march down to the boarding dock. "So you should. Such assumptions could cause insult."

Major Heyward stood dumbfounded for a moment, unsure how to respond. He was only thankful such a rude exchange did not take place in front of Miss Alice. Though Rosamund did not seem to care about any insult she may have just caused, she just continued unescorted towards the ship. Over the shrill cries of the seagulls, Rosamund called out for the dockmaster, demanding he make his presence known to her. He soon clambered to catch up with her.

"At your service, my Lady."

She did nothing to acknowledge him; instead she paced the dock, inspecting the ship as her luggage was being loaded. "Is this the ship? The one charted for America."

"The one and the same."

She gave a dismissive sniff, "Is it a fast ship?"

The Dockmaster hesitated for a moment, looking relieved when the ship's captain stepped forward to take over the conservation.

He tipped his feathered hat to her in greetings, "It's the only one chartered to New York for the next three months. She may not be fast, but she'll get you there. Miss De Vere, I presume. I am Thomas Philips, captain of this vessel. I must thank you, your late payment for this voyage is double I'd make in a month. Ye must be desperate to reach New York."

Looked again at his ship, remarking over her shoulder, "Get me there within a month and I'll pay you triple. Price is no object."

The captain seemed tempted by the offer, but knew he could not make promises. He was an experienced seaman, and had sailed the treachous seas since his youth. The waters changed with the wind; one minute all could be calm and quiet, the next they would be assaulted by storms and waves big enough to take them down to the watery depths. "I will do what is humanly possible. But the sea is an unforgiving mistress"

Rosamund cankered her head aside, ever so slightly, meeting the captain with a piercing, green eyed gaze. "As am I, if disappointed" "Where are my quarters?"

"We are stilling making some arrangements, I'm afraid. I know women such as yourself like to get nested and settled down before such a tiring voyage."

Major Heyward stepped forward, taking off his officer's cap in reverence. Perhaps trying to appease his earlier offense. "Lady De Vere, I gladly offer my chambers to your disposal. I will slum with the seadogs, if only to keep a lady in comfort."

Yet Rosamund's cold expression did not falter, nor did her tone. There was no trace of the gratitude or thankfulness he expected. "A touching gesturing." She took a step closer to him, noting his military uniform and rank. "Major-?"

"Heyward, Duncan Heyward. At your service." He stood to attention, and was delighted when Alice let out a charmed sigh of admiration.

"Oh, how ever so kind of you, Duncan! You are truly a gentleman." The blue eyed woman then smiled to herself, a thought seeming to have formed. "Would Lady De Vere care to share our accommodation? I'm sure my sister and I could make room."

Rosamund regarded the pair for the moment. She would not have considered them sisters at first. The younger of the pair had pale blonde hair and such deep blue eyes in comparison to her brown eyed, older sister's plain brunette hair. Perhaps there was some resemblance; the high cheek bones and subtle aquiline noses. Yet Rosamund discarded her private thoughts for later consideration.

"Yes, that would probably be best, I thank you."

The dark haired sister stepped forward to introduce herself, conducting herself properly, as one would expect from a lady of noble Britian. "My name is Cora. Cora Munro, and this is Alice. This will be our first voyage to the Americas."

"We're ever so excited! We're going to see our father at Fort Edward."

Rosamund paused. "Munro?" She turned to look over her shoulder, her interested peeked, "As in, Lieutenant-Colonel Edmund Munro?"

"Yes, he's our father." Alice's shoulder flew back, her head held a tad higher. Clearly the young woman had much pride for her father. And rightly she should. Munro was well respected throughout the British Army, the king spoke highly of him, even his military opponents held him in esteem.

Rosamund thought for a moment, "And he's at Fort Edward?"

Cora nodded, "He should be. That's where he told us to meet with him. It's been so long since we've seen him, I doubt he'd even recognise us."

She then playfully nudged her sister, who looked horrified at the thought, "Oh, don't say such things, Cora! Of course, he would."

Again, Rosamund absently patted at her right side, contemplating this development as she boarded the ship. Her little, black book was still safely on her person; unforgotten but safe. Without much delay, they set sail.

The sea journey had been pleasant, to say the least. They sailed through the great Atlantic Ocean without encountering any rough weather. The practicing Quakers on the ship praised the Lord for such favourable weather, believing it was a sign they were on their way to the Promised Lands. Major Heyward, the ever attentive gentleman, periodically checked upon his charges. Alice was ever so thrilled with his attentions, though Rosamund made her opinion clearly known to him. It seemed he had truly affronted her with his simple, honest mistake, though for the life of him he could figure out why it had caused her such insult. He simply shrugged it off as feminine hysteria. Perhaps losing her husband had unsettled her. Duncan avoided her when he could, much to her satisfaction. Cora found the situation utterly amusing; the thought of a seasoned officer, scared off by a sharp tongued widow. She teased Alice about it constantly, much to her beloved sister's annoyance.

Though standoffish at first, Rosamund found the Munro sisters to be somewhat tolerable company. Cora seemed to be the more intellectual of the two, being the eldest and of more academic disposition. Being the daughter of colonel had allowed her to receive a fine education, though it did seem limited only to the trivial admirations of fine arts and literature. It was considered un-comely for women of their status to concern themselves with the likes of scientific advancements or politic activities. Nevertheless, as time on the ship passed, the two spoke more often than not. After all, they were sharing a cabin. The Munro sisters had no quarrel sharing a bed so that Rosamund had one of her own; a gesture she found somewhat touching. Unlike many born of privileged birth, the sisters did not strike Rosamund as completely snobbish, though Alice did complain the most out the two. Clearly she was accustomed to the life she had lived and it had shaped her thusly. She found the preserved food practically unaccommodating, citing it upside her delicate digestion. Despite this, Rosamund recognised the sheltered, gentleness in her eyes. Cora was often there to keep her sister in check. The young ladies attempted to amuse themselves; an endeavour they achieved well, having brought along with them their psalm singing teacher, a Mr David Gamut. Whenever he began his shaking rendition of the psalm 'The Lord is My Shepherd', Rosamund quickly made herself scarce. For most of the time, Rosamund sat within her own company away from the prying, crowded eyes of the ship. She would sit in silence, absently flicking through the pages of her black book. Rereading passages again and again, over and over as if committing them to memory. At first glance, one would think it was a bible. Yet she never let anyone venture too close to her when it was in her possession. It meant no one could see the barely legibly scribblings written down within its pages.

* * *

2 months later. Fort Edward, New York.

The Huron chief, Magua, prowled the shadows of the fort, ever watchful of the comings and goings of the invasive palefaces. He practically trembled with excitement. The time had finally had come; his prey had been sighted within the confines of the fort. Greyhair's daughters had finally crossed the Great Water and were meeting up with their accursed father. Soon Magua would strike and have his revenge. He shook with growing anticipation; his fingers absently caressed the blade of his tomahawk. Magua had spent many moons embedding himself in the British's service, offering himself as a humble guide and friendly ally. His efforts had made him invaluable to the foolish redcoats; with well-orchestrated military shams and pre-planned victories, Magua soon found himself within the very presence of the man he wished to slay. Colonel Munro; Greyhair.

On a cool, Autumn night, he had been summoned to Colonel Munro's personal apartment, buried deep in the belly of Fort Henry. It was dimly lit. the old Colonel, in his respectable uniform retire, sat hunched over numerous maps and papers, yet again scanning for a counter solution to the assault on Fort Henry. He was so engrossed in his methodical -yet desperate- thinking, he barely noticed the scout standing before his desk. Magua grit his teeth at such insult. Even now, Greyhair unknowingly taunted and vexed him. Magua was now a respected War Chief among his many; his name known to many allies and enemies. And yet, as he stood before his paleface, he was regarded as nothing more than a hunting dog, awaiting his master's acknowledgement.

The sheer thought of it was beyond maddening.

Finally, after a pregnant pause. Greyhair looked upon with mild, assistive scrutiny. Yet no recognition showed in his aging eyes. Colonel Munro did not recognise the Huron that stood before him, had done it once before, many years ago. Magua dare not dwell on the wretched shadows of the past; they plague his mind more often than he cared to admit. All he had suffered; all he had lost was because of the monster in the red coat. The man who sat before him. Greyhair

It took every ounce of Magua's warrior discipline not to lash out and strike Greyhair where he sat. The temptation was also too great to bare. His thirst for vengeance sparked of a subtle, yet growing, haze of bloodlust. He could do nothing but fantasise; so easy it would be to embed his tomahawk in Greyhair's skull and escape the white man's wooden walls, all before the alarm could even be raised. It would swift and sweet justice.

Magua decided Greyhair did not deserve such sweet luxury. He deserved to suffer. He deserved to know the hellish agony of shame and loss. But how?

The Colonel, completely unaware and with his utterly misplaced faith, assigned Magua a special task; deliver his letter personally to the Fort Edward's commandant. Fort Henry desperately needed reinforcements. With the French's constant barrage, it would be miracle if they lasted another month of assault. He did not know what dark thoughts plagued the mind of the scout who stood before him. He was oblivious to the dangerous glint, traversing the edge of his gaze. The Colonel had been more focused on the small portrait painting adorning his desk; it depicted his daughters, Cora and Alice. One, the apple of his eye, the other, a shining light in even the bleakest day. Whenever he felt wary, he looked upon this painting for comfort.

Magua followed the Colonel's loving gaze. His eyes narrowing ever so slightly. The fatherly love in Greyhair's eyes instantly confirmed his suspicions; the two white women, one blonde and the other brunette, were Greyhair's daughters. A sordid plan formulated in Magua's mind within moments. They would become the perfect tools of torture, instrumental in their father's demise. Yes, Greyhair would suffer. He would die, knowing that his daughters would also suffer because of him.

The very thought sent a thrill down the Huron's spine, his wary eyes briefly fluttering closed, for but a brief moment of malicious contention. He was so lost in the sensation that he almost missed the flash of brilliant gold.

Magua quickly concealed himself amongst the structure of the fort. From his hiding place, he watched as new prey had come into his line of sight.

Toka'skowa.

He could scarcely believe it. She had finally returned.

Since that fateful day on the battlefield, many moons, Toka'skowa had never been sighted ever again within the neighbouring territories. Magua had attempted to find her, hoping for some morsel of information; yet none knew where the fierce lioness had gone. At first, Magua feared perhaps she had perished, her supple body broken amidst the battle, lain strewn out with the other fallen dead. But he did not find her there. Nor did he expect to, if he thought honestly with himself. Despite his sheer dislike for the paleface, even he had to admit there was something…different about this one. There was a sort of wildness to her; a sense of cunning in her eyes. Magua, dare say, even felt a sort of kinship with her, though he would never openly admit it. For now, he contented himself with merely watching from afar. After all, she had almost seen him. Even now, her keen eyes scanned her surroundings; as if sensing his presence. Magua grinned; she was perceptive as ever. The time over the Great Waters had done little to dull her cunning senses. She would also be a valuable tool, not just in Greyhair's downfall, but in the downfall of all invading white man. Tako'skowa knew many secrets; both the English and French sought after her. Either side could ruin the other with her accumulated knowledge, or at least, that's what the Marquis de Montcalm had told him. Knowledge was power to the white man in the game known as war, and as it so happens, Rosamund held many of the cards. Magua could not help but wonder what advantage her knowledge could bring the Hurons. If Magua could garnered her secrets, he could bribe and control neighbouring tribes; the Fox, Sauk and Shawnee would barter for the Huron favour. No longer would the Hurons be the lesser thank their white French brothers, but they would be their equals… if not greater.

Magua looked on, exercising great scrutiny. She looked…different from before. On the battle field, she looked dishevelled and wild; barefoot with buckskin trousers and a muddy linen blouse. Her golden curls were billowing in the fury of battle like unkempt snakes. Now those bountiful locks were choked into a high tight bun; not a hair was out of place. She was garbed in a stiff, uncomfortable looking golden dress; yet she glowed like the morning sun. Her corset laced around her midsection created an unrealistic curve to her body. It actually looked quite painful. Why white women tortured themselves like this, Magua would never know. Instead, his eyes trailed up to the string of pearls which collared her neck. Her pale cream skin matched the pure colouration of the pearls. Over the months, she had loss her slightly tanned complexion. Now, she seemed almost sickly. Pale, like the moon.

However, despite her obvious discomfort, many would still find her bewitching to behold. A number of redcoats gazed at her in covetous longing, though she seemed to pay no heed. Magua couldn't help by smirk; Tako'skowa did not spare her attentions flauntingly. Her dignified exuberance created a misleading mirror reflection of impeccable breeding and refinery. But it wasn't natural. It wasn't real. The White Man was once again fooled by Tako'skowa skilled illusion. But Magua was not so easily fooled. With hawk like eyes, he inspected her with keen detail, his black beady eyes caressing her from afar; her smiles were forced, her posture stiff and uncompromising. Whatever she was discussing with Greyhair's brood and the red coat had her utterly displeased; her lips were pursed, pulled back in a cantankerous hiss. Jilted green eyes narrowed like sharp cutting flints; they were the same eyes that haunted Magua. Teased him. Challenged him.

He thought back to that moment, where in the face of death, she stared him down. Very few had the gall to meet his gaze directly, even fewer when he brandished his tomahawk with deadly intent.

Magua watched on as the confrontation continued, little seemed to pacify Rosamund's suddenly soured mood. It was rather amusing to watch. Even the escorting officer, Major Duncan, received a rather pointed earful. Magua was too far away to hear Toka'skowa's splintering words, but he savoured her rare, visible display of outrage. When in his brief company, Tako'skowa had masked her emotions well. Now, she seemed to exercise little control, lashing the white officer viciously with her sharp words. She showed little fear or concern. Ah, this was the Tako'skowa Magua wished to see again. The woman who both enraged and impassioned. But the tall blonde soon caught herself and begrudgingly corrected her behaviour when her outburst had become a spectacle. Yet still, she did not cower or wilt in the pompous presence of twittering white men. She was a fierce woman. She shrugged off their assistance and marched her way into one of the wood structures, presumable to find accommodation of her own.

Tako'skowa would now be an obstacle. Magua would need to be patient. He would wait for the cover for night before making his way through the fort. He watched it utter silence as the last lights were being snuffed out by the roaming guards. If Tako'skowa is present when Magua is introduced as the guide, she would surely expose him and his French allegiance. Yet it was too soon to alter the plan; Greyhair's brood would need to be away from the cover the great wooden walls of the fort in order for Magua and his warriors to ambush them. Magua had little choice, he would have to whisk Tako'skowa away from the fort.

Tonight.

Rosamund flung the door of her personal cabin shut with an audible slam, venting her frustrations. Colonel Munroe was not here! He seemed to be in Fort Henry of all places, delayed by recent French activities. Coming to Fort Edward had been a pointless diversion. She would have been better off hiring a horse and making her way straight to Fort Henry. Now she was trapped in the bothersome company of Major Duncan and his troops. Though there was an advantage of added protection, travelling with so many men slowed their pace dramatically. It also made them a bigger target.

Her plan had been so simple. She had hoped to find Colonel Munro and have him issue orders to release Edward from military duty. By any means necessary. Now she would have to travel with Cora and Alice and meet with their father at Fort Henry. The thought struck her as odd. Why would Colonel Munro risk Cora and Alice travelling through a war zone to meet with him, placing them in danger? If he truly cared for their safety, surely he would have instructed them to wait at Fort Edward.

Rosamund sighed, shaking her head. The humidity of the American colonies inflamed her wound too much for her to think so hard on such matters. It was growing late into the evening; darkness had already fallen on the fort. For now, Rosamund abandoned her suspicions and prepared for bed.

Their only saving grace in this chaos came in the form of a shortcut; a native scout recommended it to Major Duncan, alleging it turned a fifteen-day trek into a mere three-day travel. It sounded too good to be true. Rosamund stood at her window for a moment the tips of her fingers over the familiar ache in her shoulder. The dull pain seemed to have worsened since she arrived. She would have to ensure she did not reopen by rumbustious activity. Rosamund left the windows of the cabin slightly open, basking in the cool night breeze. She collected a small bottle from her purse and took a swig of its soothing elixir. A concoction of her own creation; Medicinal herbs, marinated in a splash of alcohol. Perhaps not the wisest of the mixtures, but it eased the pain and allowed her a few hours of peace whilst she rested. On the ship, passing over the Great Water, her dreams had become more hellish and frequent; she assumed it was some unlinking trauma linked to her suffering from her previous visit. But she could not falter now! Somehow, out in the wilderness of this land, her brother may be fighting for his life. Rosamund could not fail him; weak, womanly sensibilities be damned. With another begrudging sigh, she retired to bed. The sooner she slept, the sooner sunrise would come.

Unknown to Rosamund, a spectre made his way to her cabin. In the dead of night, he came to her; crawling through her window with practiced silence; a seasoned beast in the form of a copper skinned man. The soft padding of his mocassins barely made a sound on the sturdy wooden floorboards. He waited in the shadows for a moment, cautious as to what to expect. When everything remained still and silent, Magua advanced. In the bed, he spied his prize.

Toka'skowa, asleep in a fitful dream.

Magua did not hesitate. His hand grazed the soft contours of her cheek, stirring her from her distressing sleep. "Magua said he would find you, Toka'skowa."

He watched with satisfaction as her eyes snapped opened in fright, blindly scurrying for the darkness in alarm. Despite the poor light, her sharp eyes soon focused on his figure, looming above her. She struck first, her dainty fist colliding with the truck of his neck. She knew she was in a disadvantaged position, prone on the bed and quickly tried to scamper away. But he was on her like beast leaping onto his prey. She struggled under him, thrashing and turning in an attempt to throw his body from her. He fought hard to restrain her in her moment of maddened movement.

"Ah, you are vicious, woman." Magua growled, his voice throaty and rough from her blow. He used his full weight to restrain her, taunting her as he did so. "Magua always wondered what it would be like, having a devil cat in his blankets."

Rosamund stilled at his words, affronted. If she could not fend him off herself, she would settle for assistance. She only hoped the Fort guards were nearby.

"Help-" she began in a shrill cry. But Magua slapped his hand across her mouth, muffling any further sound.

Magua panted harshly, his heart thundering in his chest. At first it had been amusing, having her struggle under him, but now it had become vexing. Even in her feverish state, she fought like vicious beast, bucking and thrashing, lashing out whenever she could. Even now, she clawed at his wrist. Her prim cut nails breaking into his leathery skin. When her other hand snaked behind the pillow of the bed, he sharply struck her into a daze. He found the blade she had concealed -out of habit- and with a sneer, threw it across the room.

After a tense moment, Rosamund finally stopped struggling. Her breath flaring out harsly at her exertion. All she could do was stare up at Magua with those questioning, yet no less suspicious, eyes.

He seemed crazed, grinning like a wily fox about to consume his meal. "Magua cannot have Tako'skowa expose him to the palefaces."

Her eyes only narrowed, clearly unsure as to what he meant. Then it hit her. The native scout Major Duncan had mentioned. It must have been Magua he was referring to! The sly, craft Huron dog had somehow encompassed himself amongst the British.

Magua watched as realisation bled into her eyes; he was not surprised she had figured it out so quickly.

"Magua has learnt well from you, Tako'skowa." He sneered, leaning in closely, "Now Magua walks unseen amongst his enemies. Waiting for the moment to strike and get revenge on those who have wronged him."

Rosamund bit the skin of his palm, savagely, yet received no immediate reaction. The Huron, for a moment, had retreated into his own thoughts. "Grey hair," he grumbled absently, his eyes glazing over briefly.

Despite his absent mind, he became aware of wetness trailing on to the hand he was using to silence her. In the dark, Magua caught a glimpse of tears slowly cascading down her cheeks. She appeared to be crying. He was somewhat taken back; Tako'skowa did not seem like a woman who was easily intimidated, resorting to tears. Why was she doing so now? Then he saw it. The crimson stain forming on the shoulder of her white, virginal nightdress. It seemed their struggle in the bed had opened a wound. Her watery eyes were narrowed in agonising pain, not fear. She shook her head, as if forbidding him to inspect the wound; he did not comply. He released his hold on her wrist and roughly pulled the material off her shoulder – despite her renewed struggling – tearing it and exposing her damaged flesh to his ravenous gaze. Magua took a moment to simply look at the scabby, inflammation. It was truly an ugly wound, ill-treated and left to fester. It marred her otherwise flawless skin; the sickly discoloration told Magua that the wound had been trying to heal for some time (thought with little success). He could only assume she had received it in the recent months, perhaps from the very battle when they parted ways.

Magua snorted to himself. She should have complied back then and saved herself the trouble.

"Such a nasty wound." He sneered, grasping her shoulder in a painful hold, uncaring if his hand became stained with her blood. He only chuckled as Rosamund withered under him in suffering, her agonised groans muffled under his hand. "White man's medicine is as good as his word."

"Magua feels your pain, Toka'skowa. He too knows the agony of splitting flesh." However, that did not stop him from inflicting more discomfort. In fact, he seemed to revel in it, applying more pressure. Perhaps he thought it would make her more yielding. The pain was inhabiting; Rosamund practically forced herself to go limp in an attempt to ease the pain of his merciless groping. Magua felt compelled to test this new found compliance. He watched her intently as his hand slithered further under the torn material of her shift, caressing the undamaged portion of her torso and palming the swell of her breast. Rosamund shuddered with fury, her tapered eyes promising retaliation. Magua grinned in anticipation, eyes half lidded with smug pleasure; her skin was smooth and soft, hot to the touch.

Even though Tako'skowa was a woman, she had already proved herself to be a more than worthy enemy. Having her at his mercy filled Magua with such deviant elation he could scarcely contain himself.

Then a sound stole his attention. The fort guards were making their last rounds. Now would be the perfect time to flee the fort and dispatch Tako'skowa. Quickly, he moved to bind her wrists. And she struck with hellish vehemence. Rosamund lashed out in a mixture of fury and fright; aiming to gouge out his hateful black eyes with her bare fingers. She wanted one last strike at him, spurred on by the humiliation he had just inflicted upon her. How dare he lay his hands on her so brazenly; the terrifying thought spurned her on, chasing away of the pain of her wound from her frantic thoughts. Her claw like nails sank deeply into his cheek, drawing blood.

Magua suppressed a pained grunt. "Fiendish woman!" He slapped her again, perhaps harder than he meant to. Her head struck the wooden headboard of the bed. She went limp for a moment, body suddenly slack and unresponsive. Magua felt the scolding heat of his blood run a trail down his cheek. He touched the wound, his own blood now layered that of Toka'skowa's on his fingers. He grunted in exasperation and continued binding her wrists. He cut a strip from the bed linen and tried it tightly to gag her. Like the roars of the mountain lion, her voice would carry far for many to hear. She weighed less than he originally thought when he flung her over his shoulder. Without her struggling, tussled up in the sheets of her bed, Magua was able to flee the fort without rousing suspicion. A neglected section of wooden walls was easily pried apart; he squeezed through and pulled Rosamund with him. Like a pair of foxes in the night, they were gone before anyone saw them.

" **What have you caught?"**

The warriors, hidden amongst the thickening trees, came openly to greet their chief when he announced himself from the closing distance. The Hurons curiously eyed the bundle on his shoulder, wondering if perhaps he had procured some of the white man's food or fine rum. Their chief only grinned and dropped the bundle at his feet, inciting a startled cry. **"A devil cat."** He absently patted the side of his cheek, openly acknowledging the wound she had inflicted on him.

The rough landing jostled Rosamund with a start. She quickly sat up, shrugging the blanket off to get her bearings. She had expected Magua to be looming nearby, but she had not expected to come face to face with a pack of his Huron devils. Their faces were obscured with hideous war paint, only the whites of their eyes stood out. Some seemed disappointed with Magua's prize, much having preferred the white man's fire water; they turned back to their encampment and settled.

One, however, - a young looking warrior- brazenly approached, hand stretched out to caress the golden curls escaping her night cap, **"Such pretty hair."** His grip tightened on a stray lock. He gave a distinctive tug, seemingly amused at Rosamund's cry of outrage. **"Her scalp would hang high in my long house."**

Magua slapped his hand away and shoved the brave aside as he begun to drag Rosamund deeper into the heart of their makeshift encampment. **"Tako'skowa belongs to Magua."**

The young warrior grunted, but said nothing more. Very few Hurons openly challenged Magua; it was considered foolish to do so. Though that did not occur to Rosamund. She deliberately dragged her feet, hoping to gain some sort of grip on the ground and free herself from Magua's hold. But her dainty bed slippers proved useless. She only dirtied and scuffed them in her efforts.

He threw her to the ground, on a pre-laid blanket, nearest the fire. Rosamund staggered to stand, fitting for a fight - though soon found herself pushed down again.

Magua placed his moccasin clad foot heavily on Rosamund's bound hands, effectively pinning her to ground whilst he conversed with some of his men. She could no dislodge him, no matter how much she tried. The beast of a man simply weighed too much! She knew full well. When he fell upon her during her abduction, he had almost knocked the wind out of her. The repeated tugging at her arms only further pained her blazing wound. Soon she stopped struggling, realising it was hopeless; the disheartening thought ravaged her. Magua's unruly captive cried out, whether out of pain or defiance, he did not know but it was promptly ignored. All she could do was glare at him and wait for his next move.

Magua concluded his discussion, dismissing his men with a commanding wave of his hand. It was clear, amongst his people, he was deeply respected. None should question him.

He sat down beside Rosamund, taking hold of her bound wrists in one hand. She had already hidden one blade near her person, Magua wanted to ensure she hid no more. His hawkish eyes scanned for any possible places of concealment. His gaze landed first on her clothed hair. Magua relieved the curls of her hair from the binding night bonnet and cast it into the fire. He watched with a sense of satisfaction as it burned and Tako'skowa's hair tumbled passed her shoulders. He took his time, running his fingers through her hair intimately. It was much thicker than he had first thought, but pleasingly soft, like the fur of rabbit. Indeed, some would prize her scalp. Her hair was as a golden as the sun. As Magua continued comb his fingers through her hair -ignoring her pointed, hateful gaze- he decided he rather disliked the colour. Whilst some of his Huron brothers had developed a deviant desire for the strangeness of white women, Magua was still un-attracted to the pasty, paleness of their skin. Rosamund's hair reminded Magua of one of Greyhair's daughters, the one with yellow hair and weak eyes. The thought of his enemy and his offspring instantly soured the Huron's thoughts. Tako'skowa visibly tensed, as if sensing his darkened mood. She looked away but soon found returned her gaze to Magua. She shifted, her discomfort growing by the moment.

From the corner of his eyes, he spied the younger warrior, eyeing their interaction with heavy, jealous eyes. Magua could not help but tease the young buck that looked on so brazenly; from time to time the arrogant youth tried Magua's patience and pushed his luck. Magua perceiving the faltering wickedness in the youth's wanton gaze and took full advantage of it. He leant in, burying the side of his war wary face into Rosamund's mass of golden curls. She had not expected such sudden closeness and visibly stiffened as he inhaled deeply with an audible groan. Rosamund swore to herself he only did it to further unsettle her. It was the only small comfort she could muster for the time being.

Yet Magua lingered. He did not move.

He found her scent was soft, yet tangy, which surprised him. It was a curious aroma; one he had not smelt before. Magua assumed it was some sort of unnatural perfumed fragrance the white man usually favoured. He had always found the odours unpleasant and overpowering; the French officers soaked their linen shirts in so much scented oils, Magua could smell them leagues away. Yet Rosamund's scent was far more tolerable. Pleasant even. He breathed in again and again, as if trying to commit to memory. By now the jealous youth had stormed off, cursing viciously at the sly old fox's taunting display.

Needless to say, Rosamund was less than impressed. She let out a shriek of outrage, wrenching and hissing away in apparent disgust.

Despite the intimate gesture, his mind was fixed of scouring. He grasped her hair to hold her still. Knowing the woman's vindictive nature, Magua cautiously continued his search for weapons. Slowly. His hand pawed at her waist. "No pistol this time, Tako'skowa? Time with white man has made you lazy."

She had surprised him greatly that time during the battle, brandishing a pistol with such an unflinching gaze. He would never let her surprise him like that again. As Magua continued his search, he caught the vindictive glint in her eyes; the bold chief only smirked in reply. He was no coward like the white man; he was no so easily cockled by Tako'skowa's spitting and hissing of words which dripped with venom. His black eyes then strayed down to her chest. During their scuffle on the bed, her shift had been ripped and pried open. The tear now reached down to her navel. One slip off the shoulder and she would be bared before all surrounding the campfire. The surrounding Huron warriors jeered and whistled at the spectacle, taunting her. Magua did not stop them; he seemed more focused at the task at hand. Perhaps it would even teach the proud Tako'skowa a much needed lesson in humility. Though her cheeks burned with indignation, Rosamund did not give them the satisfaction or excitement of seeing her struggle. Begrudgingly, Magua respected that. The woman was prideful, too much for her own good.

Gnashing her teeth, Rosamund bit down on the strip of linen restricting her mouth, envisioning the various ways she'd kill these Huron devils when she escaped. If she ever did manage to escape. The bindings around her wrists had already cut off the circulation to her fingers. She could feel the flesh of her dainty fingers had already began to swell, making their movements and ministrations clumsy and useless. The more she wriggled and adjusted her arms, the deeper the rawhide cut into her wrists. Yet this isn't why Rosamund was hesitate to attempt escape. The Hurons had already proven themselves to be cunning adversaries once before. Not only did they outnumber her, they were also armed and well rested. Rosamund was smart enough -and realistic enough- to realise she was at a severe disadvantage. Her only hope was to pray her absence would be noticed.

Still, Rosamund could fantasise; perhaps if she bloodied her wrists enough she could slip out of her bond, she could sneak away into the night. No, no. She had second thoughts about that plan; Magua's Hurons would run her down like a pack of dogs before the next sunrise. She had no weapons, no provisions and no method of travel. It would just be a short lived game for chase for them. Escape, at this moment in time was no possible. So, instead, she entertained other fantasies. She delighted at the thought of stabbing the black hearted Huron chief; with his own knife, no less. It would be most gratifying, even if his warriors would kill her soon after. Still, she could dream.

Magua must have recognised the dangerous glint in her eyes. His hand, fisted in her hair, tightened. "Be sweet to Magua, Tako'akowa" He warned, bring his lips to the shell of her ear. Though his words were softly spoken, his threat was clear. Anymore open defiance would end his mild treatment. Mockingly, as if illustrating this point, Magua adjusted the bed sheet to cover her, much to the disappointment of his warriors.

"Magua is a gentleman, no?" It seemed he had lost interest in the sport of teasing her. There were other matters that needed his attention. Soon the palefaces would wake and the fort would become a hive of activity. Magua did not wish to raise suspicion as to his late absence.

Ensuring Toka'skowa as properly covered and her -bruised- honour was secure, he paused. His fingers caressed her cheek, taking note of the darkening bruise he had given her from his earlier assault. He felt no remorse or guilt over it. If the woman did not struggle so viciously, he would not need use his heavy hand to control her. Yet despite the trouble she inflicted on herself, Magua respected Toka'skowa's tenacity. One could not survive the harsh realities of war without it.

"Magua must leave you for now, Tako'skowa. But not for long." He frowned at her open look of relief, but shrugged it off. "Cause my warriors no trouble."

Soon the woman would learn it would do no good to fight him; if she wanted to survive and live well, she would be wise to heed his words. With one last taunting caress of her cheek, he left his Huron warriors and their makeshift camp and made his way back to the fort. The trap was set, and without Tako'skowa's meddling, soon Greyhair's daughters will be in his grasp.

Only then could he make the old Colonel suffer.

* * *

A/N – well, what do we think? Don't worry, fox and the robin will also be updated soon. Rate and review !


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